


Just Another Modern AU

by Lairenuriel



Category: Angbang - Fandom, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adult Themes, And Then the Murders Began, D/s, Depictions of Violence- vague and graphic, M/M, Modern AU, Politics, Recreational Drug Use, Sexual Content, Umaiar have potty mouths...and minds, Vala/maia, legal drug use as an unhealthy coping mechanism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-23
Packaged: 2019-03-05 14:16:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 22
Words: 88,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13389567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lairenuriel/pseuds/Lairenuriel
Summary: I've been stuck in this Modern AU for WAY too long - so I may as well start publishing it.Welcome to Modern Arda. Arda as it evolved after the Valar withdrew. (Or have they?) The Elves have departed.Melkorish humanity has risen to dominance and the other races have diminished - disappeared. The Struggle for the One Ring and the Return of King Elessar are now grand myths from a distant past. ( Think Camelot and King Arthur)But an Ancient Power has slipped into a modern world. Assessing signs and portents, it begins to gather allies and servants long relegated to myth and metaphor by short human memories. But one particular, precious, asset has eluded discovery and reclamation...until now.A second Seduction begins.





	1. Same Smith, Different Day

May 24, 2017

 

**_Same Smith, Different Day_ **

 

“ Doctor Smith?”  A woman’s voice hailed him from the doorway.  “ Dr. Smith?  Dr. Artano said I’d find you here?”

Mairon, handing his data-pad off to one of the others, barely spared an annoyed glance for the stylish woman in the doorway.  Striding to her, he jerked his head to indicate the door.  She stepped out, and he followed her.  She wore haute couture to his lab coat.  But she had sense enough to keep quiet as he went to the double reinforced observation window. 

They watched the rest of his R&D team cross to the far side and the other observation room.  Where the computers monitors were, he thought irritably.

He wanted to see the data flow live, dammit!  In a few moments, they would not be able to talk anyway – the fans were incredibly noisy.  As were the cold air compressors.

“ I’m from Súl- Elentári,” she started.  Mairon knew exactly who she was.

“ Just a minute,” he held up one hand.  The fans roared to life.  The cement floor vibrated beneath them.  There was no way to hear yourself think, forget a mere voice, in all this noise.  The temperature adjustment flow began its high-pitched whine.  Her mouth moved for a moment before she realized it was useless and snapped it shut.  She actually bridled with indignation.

Mairon had spent two years of his life designing, building, and programming this system.  He would _not_ miss the final simulation because Ilmarë Erinti, Varda Elentári’s personal secretary, wanted to know what color tie he’d be wearing to the wrap party – or whatever senseless shit she decided could not wait.

And he was damned annoyed not to be in the lab across the simulation tunnel, where all the actual fucking data scrolled down monitors in steady streams.  His production team knew what the parameters should be, but it truly pissed him off that Curumo and the others were over there without him.  Simply, Mairon trusted no one else’s interpretation of the data.

After several minutes, veins of frost began to zigzag their way across the reinforced window.  Mairon watched the icy pattern expand as cold fog thickened and swirled in the test chamber – coming down to the projected temperature.  Just as he nodded to himself, the apparatus began to move.

It did exactly what it had been designed and programmed to do: move a series of various sized and shaped containers from secure containment and snap them precisely back into a similar lock system several feet away.

The test would repeat the procedure five times over half an hour: approximating vacuum operating conditions.  Or as close as they could simulate down here at the bottom of the gravity well.

Five minutes in, Ilmarë realized he intended to watch the whole thing.  She tugged on his sleeve; mouthed something at him.  He shook his head.  She pointed at the door leading outside the simulation facility.  He shook his head again.  Finally, she marched herself out.  Obviously furious.

Ten minutes later, the phone in the breast pocket of his lab coat vibrated.

 

Recv’d:

Fr: Aulë

“ Howz it going, kid?  Conference Rm. @ 1?”

 

Mairon bit back a vindicated smile.  He texted back –

Sent:

“ In progress.  See you then.”

 

Less than a minute later:

 

Recv’d:

Fr: Aulë

“ u wanna wear Hazmat.  c u then.”

 

At twenty to one, Mairon settled himself at his usual spot at the huge, oval table that dominated Conference Room A.  He booted his laptop.  Then he arranged his hardcopy files, two pens, and a mechanical pencil just to the right of his computer.  When the boot finished, he opened the data files he needed. 

He wore his own version of Hazmat – a Thom Sweeney charcoal grey, wool-cashmere blend bespoke suit.  It fit like a second skin.  Perching his reading glasses on his nose, he scanned the compiled data in silence.

The other members of his team were not surprised to find him already in place.  Wenna, a passable metallurgist and their newest member, hurried to bring him a mug of green tea from the sideboard.  He didn’t look up, missing her hopeful – and slightly flirtatious – smile as he murmured an automatic, “ Thank you.”

“ Oh, you’re welcome, Dr. Smith,” she breathed out.

Sal Curumo plonked down heavily in the seat next to Mairon’s.  “ Finished reviewing the data, then?”  Sal asked needlessly.  More to make conversation as they waited for Aulë.  “ Too bad you missed the live stream, it was damn satisfying.”

A jet of irritation shot through Mairon.  But it didn’t reach his face as he looked up at his co-worker over the top of his glasses.

Sal was lean, dark of eye, clever in his own way while being dumb as a post in others.  An unrepentant ass-kisser of the highest order.  But he was remarkably good with robotics, both building and programming.

It wasn’t his fault that living with him was completely intolerable.  He’d probably do well with an average guy as his roommate.  One who’d watch sports, eat fatty junk food, and be equally dumb as a post.

“ It was inconvenient.” Mairon responded, “ Ms. Erinti has shit timing.”  He was aware of a whispered conversation taking place beyond Curumo’s other shoulder.  The words,  “ Vice-Presidency,” reached him.  And, “ Oh, it’s _his_.  No one else is qualified.”

Just then, Aulë rolled in: big, bluff, and good-natured – always smiling.  Unfortunately, behind him came Varda Elentári.  At her right shoulder, Ilmarë Erinti – still palpably pissed.  Aulë clapped his hands together, looking over the conference room.

“ Well done, children!  Let me start there,” his tendency to call his employees alternately, "children" or "kids" meant that he was often affectionately referred to by some form of patronymic in Staff Rooms.  “ You’ve exceeded my expectations!  I’m very proud of you all!”

A round of soft “ Thank you's”  rose from the table. 

Mairon nodded silently.  As Director of this particular project, however, he would have preferred a more overt acknowledgment of his part.  None of the others put in fifteen-hour days.  Came to work on Saturday or filled their free time adjusting algorithms and researching metallurgical stress concentrations…overtaxed their imaginations trying to best simulate the unknown conditions of a vacuum environment…

But the Vice Presidency of Research and Development would soon be an open position.  Its current occupant had announced his intention to retire…and buy a boat…at the end of this month.

Aulë took his seat at the head of the table.  Directly on Mairon’s left. 

Varda and her bitch of a secretary ensconced themselves at the foot.

“ My husband and Eönwë are delayed.  They’ll join us shortly.  Manwë suggests that we start without them.”  Varda spoke, and her voice was sublime – to match the rest of her.

Every one, except Mairon, stared at Varda.  There was no choice.  Her beauty was almost painful to the eye.  It had little to do with her always-elegant clothes or expertly styled hair.  Her face was serene, ethereal symmetry.  She possessed a long, stately form deported with swanlike grace.  Large, deep blue eyes swept the table as she brushed a stray lock back into the long swathe of jet-black hair flowing down her shoulders.

Mairon noted that her gaze paused on him, and the skin over high cheekbones tightened just a fraction.  He met her cerulean eyes for a spare second before returning his gaze to his data.  She was stunning.  If he had any interest in women, he might admit it aloud.

“ Mairon, lad, let’s get started!” Aulë swung his seat around a little.

“ Yes, sir,” Mairon smiled briefly.  True affection warmed usually cool features; glinted for a moment in unusual, amber-brown eyes. 

“ Ready?” He turned to his assembled team.  A line of enthusiastic nods responded along the long oval table. 

“ Sir,” Mairon hit a couple of keys on his laptop, transferring a data spread to large monitors stationed strategically around the room, “ we’re happy to report an unprecedented success.”


	2. Expensive Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon has a social function looming. He understands the conventions, but they sure do annoy him. Nothing's falling into place...until he meets a stranger in a wine shop.

 

_**Expensive Wine** _

 

 

The shop is dark and cool.  Bottles of red wine line the open shelves and the whites wait in refrigerated rows behind glass doors.  Mairon wanders, looking to match the notes on his phone with any of the labels before him.

He doesn’t drink.  He doesn’t know wine.  His entire life has been focused on achieving his goals – there’s been no place in it for distractions. 

Eönwë had given him a short but intense crash-course outside the conference room.  Recommending several good brands while their respective bosses shook hands: congratulating each other on yet another successful collaborative Project.

This time the party would take place at Manwë’s sprawling mansion.  His wife is known to be a woman of exquisite –  _expensive_  – taste. 

Mairon would much rather it took place at Aulë’s.  His wife, Yavanna Artano-Kementári, is a warm and generous woman who would be more than pleased with a colorful bouquet of flowers.  She’s always accepted them with joy, and Mairon has forged a cordial relationship with the best florist in town.  A quick call, a quick stop, and he arrived with an armful of flowers suited for a visiting dignitary – wonderfully efficient.

Now he taps his lower lip.  He taps the top of his phone.  He wanders and wastes time trying to buy wine for a woman whom he suspects does not like him. 

It’s nothing overt, and perhaps he’s reading too much into it.  Admittedly, he isn’t social.  He’d rather be at his workbench, or running algorithms on the Mainframe, then engaging in small-talk.  But whenever the conversation turns, and Varda’s cool and beautiful face looks to him... conversation becomes strained.  The weather.  Always.  He may not be social, but he isn’t an idiot.

“ Can I help you?” a small, dapper man in white and blue asks, pausing beside Mairon with an overly bright smile.

“ I’m looking for wine to take to a company function.”  Mairon does not smile.  He indicates the list on his phone and reads off the first three names suggested by Eönwë .

The man’s brows lift.  He craned his head to get a better look at Mairon’s phone.  He says, “ We could order….” With an uncertain note in his voice.

“ How long would that take?” Mairon asks.  The party’s the weekend after next.  He’s on his third foray into one of these dark, chilly shops.

“ I’ll have to check,”

“ Thank you.”

He follows the sales clerk toward the back where a workstation and a computer wait.  Mairon brushed past another customer: vaguely noting a  _very_ tall man -  clad completely in black -  motionless at the beer cooler.

Standing behind the wine merchant, he watched the dapper fellow call up the first of Eönwë’s suggestions.  He blinked once.  A thousand?  For  _her_?  Pride rebelled at the thought of buying a bottle of wine at that price for a woman he was damned sure wouldn’t give him the time of day.  Aulë could have that distinction.

The other brands weren’t much less.  Mairon stood blinking - annoyed.  Relief flooded him when the wine merchant apologetically announced it would take a fortnight, at best, to get any of these brands delivered.

“ I need a bottle for Saturday next.” He responded coolly. “ I can’t wait two weeks.”  Composure came naturally to him.  Born into the system, he’d been raised in foster homes. 

He’d never fit anywhere.  Hard-earned scholarships had taken him to university at the age of eleven.  Revealing his emotions – in fact sometimes  _feeling_  emotion – had not been to his benefit.  He’d learned early to keep them off his face: shut them out.

Mairon’s teenage years had revolved through lecture halls, labs, and offices. Aulë Artano had recruited him directly out of Academia after he’d finished his second Doctorate. 

“ Thank you for your trouble.”  The forms and systems of politeness were tools he understood: effectively allowing him to function in society while remaining detached.

Deciding this was futile; he pocketed his phone and took out the shopping list he’d scrawled on a scrap of notepaper.  Yogurt, pomegranate juice, fish – in and out in fifteen minutes, just how he liked to shop.  As he paused to consider if he should grab a lemon for the fish, a deep voice murmured, “ No luck with your wine?” directly into his ear.

Mairon jerked, glancing around to find the tall man in black from the beer cooler beside him.  It wasn’t often he had to look up at someone, but the man in black…oh, he was tall.  And his deep, rumbling voice seemed…somehow familiar.

Handsome, was Mairon’s next somewhat flustered thought, very handsome in an angular sort of way.  As he looked into dark blue eyes, he felt heat begin to color his face.

For several moments, he floundered.  He tried to respond, swallowed once, then managed a thin, “ Excuse me?”

“  A L’Arrossee Ex-Chateau, 2000 – that’s an expensive little Bordeaux.”

Mairon remembered that the wine merchant had said the name aloud while he was searching his database.  A small, wry smile touched Mairon’s lips and he nodded.  “Nine hundred a bottle, it seems.”  The smile turned sour, “ A bit much for my needs.”

Those dark blue eyes smiled and the world beyond them became less distinct and much less important.  The tall man came slightly closer.  Mairon’s face lifted further.  He unconsciously  _stared_  into those intense eyes.  The sour smile faded and his mind fuzzed before going completely numb.

“ I know where you can get a decent Pinot Noir for less,”

“ Oh?” the little word seemed to echo on his lips.

“ Hmm,” the blue-eyed stranger hummed softly, nodding once.

Ten minutes later, he found himself standing beside his car in the parking lot.  His grocery list pressed to his chest.  The sequence of events seemed surreal.  He vaguely remembered moving to the cash register counter as the man bought himself a twelve pack of expensive artisan beer and borrowed a pen from the young woman who’d waited on him.

He glanced down at the scrap of paper in his hands.  Below his short list, a note had been scrawled – the handwriting dark on each down-stroke.

 “ JCB Pinot Noir #3, 2010

 Culina @ Webster & Hawthorne

 Tuesday” 

and

“ 969 Hobbs Hill.  Call for appt.” Followed by a phone number.

Mairon had no recollection what the second address meant.  He could barely remember the conversation - the words an indistinct blur in his memory.  But the thrill that deep voice had invoked in him, he remembered that perfectly.  It still buzzed along his nerves like a jolt off a live wire.

 _I’d have gone home with him if he’d asked me._ The thought shook him to his core.  Usually so cautious, and totally immune to sexual chemistry, he felt with dismay the frisson still traveling up his spine.   _That deep voice… so sexy.  And tall…no big, so damned big..._

Mairon actually shuddered at the residual emotion thrumming along his nerves.  _I bet he’s hung like a…no, **stop**!_  He chided himself. 

“ It’s just cock, Smith, get a grip on yourself.”  He muttered aloud as he unlocked the car and slid into the driver’s seat.  “ Yogurt, juice, fish…and..a…uh,  a…a lemon.  You need a lemon.”  He kept a pen in the stick shift console for just this purpose.  Grabbing it, he added ‘lemon’ at the end of the little list.  For a moment he stared at the dark handwriting below his own…he’d Google both addresses when he got back to Curumo’s flat.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, our uptight executive is doing his best to fit form and function. But he's not about to kiss Varda's behind when he knows she doesn't like him.
> 
> With continued appreciation to my Fandom on Tumblr: Awesome people abounding - Dragonofmordor, raisingcain, lieutenant-admirable, hazlenutshippingco, elf-in-a-mask, bluestaratsunrise, samwise-po-tay-toe-gamgee, chiliadicorum, vikslamp, lieutenant-of-darkness, heartofoshun, violinclad, the wonderful frackfrackfrack, nixiegenesis, to-the-ends-of-infinity, artist extraordinaire - gandalfwho, firstlastandonly, moriquendii, and trevades - for now.


	3. Futon,  Rack – All the Same.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out why Mairon and Curumo are NOT ideal roommates and the circumstance that has caused this Highly Unlikely situation. And...a surprising interest from an unexpected source.

_**Futon,  Rack – All the Same.** _

 

Another fifteen-hour day.  Mairon wanted a shower, solitude, and superior music to calm his frenetic mind and sooth harried nerves.

 A quick, light dinner before he fell onto the futon in Curumo’s spare room.  Tomorrow would be the same again but this Project was so close to completion.  He looked forward to writing his final report for Aulë’s approval.  Finishing his part.  He  _knew_  the software was perfect and all the components were vacuum ready.  Delivering the payload transfer apparatus was someone else’s problem.

The elevator pinged, indicating he’d reached the fifth floor.  Mairon drew a deep breath, tightened his hold on his briefcase, and prepared to meet whatever shit awaited him in Curumo’s flat tonight.  He couldn’t do this much longer.  He just couldn’t.

Walking down the short corridor, he dug his keys out of his coat pocket.  Taking a second deep breath, – the heavy security door muffled a burst of chaotic noise - he let himself in.

“ Go, go go!”  It seemed they had half a dozen guests.  The living room tables littered with open pizza boxes, dead beer bottles, and rumpled potato crisp bags.  There was some sort of sport playing out on the huge TV mounted on the far wall.

“ Twenty-five minutes into the second half,  the score is tight…”  The commentator’s voice blared.  Mairon winced and resisted an urge to back into the corridor.  A hotel room suddenly seemed very appealing.  But, seven heads turned toward him -

“ There he is!”

“ Mai!”

“ Back at last!”

“ Ronnie!” Curumo must be drunk as shit to think he could get away with  _that_! 

The tension headache that had been teasing him all day exploded into a full-blown throb.  It slammed to vicious life against the base of his nape.

 “ Salvatore Curumo, only my foster mother calls me  _that_.”  Mairon kept it from being a snarl by grace of long practiced and stringent control.  “ You’re not her.”

One of them rose to his feet, looking over Mairon with intense blue eyes.  Eönwë’s face contorted in sympathy.  “ He’s drunk, don’t mind him.”

“ Don’t be like that, have a beer!”

“ It’s after nine, don’t you ever stop working?”

“ Get that suit off, come watch the game with us and eat some pizza,”

“ He never stops working.” Curumo lamented, “ I think he works in his sleep.  Makes the rest of us look bad.  Sorry, Mai.  I’m a bit tight.  Too much good beer,” He gestured with the bottle in his hand, indicating Eönwë, “ Someone insisted on the expensive label.  Get comfortable and come sit with us, have something to eat.”

Eönwë was still on his feet, looking far more sober than anyone else in the room.  He was also far more handsome in his pale way.  “ I brought you a Harad salad – I hope that was okay.  Sal said you didn’t eat pizza.”

“ Pizza is fattening carbohydrate hell.” Curumo intoned in a state of somber drunkenness.

Mairon muttered, “ That was good of you, thank you.”  To Eönwë, then to everyone else, “ I’m going to change, excuse me.”  He retreated to Curumo’s guest bedroom.

Resisting the urge to sling his briefcase, he set it carefully down and glared at everything and nothing.  Cursed the electrical fire that had burnt down his previous flat.  Aulë been so pleased, so glad to help when he’d arranged this temporary solution for Mairon but the situation was…less than ideal at the beginning…now beyond intolerable.  Not to mention this fucking torturous futon!  Mairon sank onto it and rested his head in his hands.

He needed his own place.  His own space.  Privacy, and solitude, and no damned big screen TV!  He’d never owned a TV.  A huge stereo system, with surround sound speakers of the best quality – he’d indulged that passion, he had to admit -but no TV.   _Fuck_ , he missed his music!

And what in Udûn’s lowest hell was Eönwë doing here?  Why was Manwë Súlimo’s P.A. fraternizing with Aulë’s Project Heads?  Because every one of those people hooting at the football game in Curumo’s living room  _was_  an executive of either Artano Industries or Súl-Elentári.  Sal, it seemed, had decided to take kissing ass to an unprecedented level.

But a Harad salad sounded very good, perfect in fact, and Mairon pulled himself up from the futon.  He was surprised that Eönwë remembered – last time they’d had a business lunch with their respective employers, that’s what he’d ordered.  He supposed details were Eönwë’s business as much as they were his own.

As he changed out of his suit into sweats and a loose shirt, he found the shopping list he’d had in the wine shop in his waistcoat pocket.  A quick Search had told him that Culina was a little fine-dining restaurant rapidly becoming renowned for its fresh local cuisine.  The address on Hobbs Hill belonged to an old Queen Adûnaphel mansion recently restored by a new owner – according to the two-year-old article.

“ Call for appt.” The dark handwriting urged him again.  He put the scrap of paper on the nightstand under his phone.  Now that the current Project was nearly over, he’d have time to search for a new flat.  It seemed a fortuitous place to start.

After washing his face, he went back out to find the football game in its last twenty minutes.  Eönwë hovered in Curumo’s kitchenette with a covered take-away container.

“ How much do I owe you?” Mairon asked.  As he took the lid off, the smell of lemon and oil wafted up to make his mouth water.  It was a bastardized dish, of course.  Lettuce did not grow near the desert.  But there were olives, balls of labneh – soft, sour cheese made from yogurt - chickpeas, onion, and even pickled eggplant.  “ This looks fantastic,” With sincere appreciation.

“ Oh, it was nothing.” Eönwë lingered in the small kitchenette.  His pale blue eyes seemed watchful, wary even.  “ You could….buy me lunch?”

Mairon, in the act of grabbing himself a fork, stopped dead.  He looked up to find that Eönwë hovered much closer to him – wary expression still in place.  Suspecting that the other man did NOT mean in a business sense, Mairon assessed pale blue eyes for a very long moment.

“ That would be...food...great….fine, uh…  I mean, y- yes, of course.”

“ You stuttered.” Eönwë whispered, very amused, “ Are…are you blushing?”

“ Keep it up, I’ll send a stripper to your office.”  Mairon retorted.  See what Varda Elentári had to say about  _that_.  He used his hip to shut the silverware drawer and stabbed into the salad with his fork.

“ I’m sorry….really…I just…you surprised me.” Eönwë had the good grace to don a repentant expression.  “ Nothing flusters  _you_.”

 Mairon murmured, “ You surprised me, too.  Now we’re even.”  A rising yell from the living room reminded them that there were others present and someone could walk in on them at any time.  “ Text me – you have my number – let me know when you're free.  And where you’d like to go.”

“ I will.  I certainly will!” Eönwë flashed a charming smile.

“ Hey, bring me another beer!”

“ You guys are missing the best part, c’mon!”

“ There’s a best part?” Mairon shook his head as Eönwë grabbed a handful of fresh beer bottles from Curumo’s fridge.  “ Other than the end?”

The blond man chuckled, “ C’mon, grumpy ginger.  I thought the bad-tempered redhead was just a stereotype.”

“ No,” Mairon followed him into the living room, “ we’re irritable bastards.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mairon is reaching the end of his tolerance. Perhaps it will lead him to uncharacteristically rash decisions in the near future. Poor guy, he's under a lot of stress....
> 
> Now I go on singing in Praise of the wonderful people in my fandom:
> 
> The multitalented misbehavingmaiar, crack-in-the-cup, melkoor, evilbrat2013, verymaedhros, ceruleanshark, priestofmelkor, ezialamperouge, berthulina1314, sirensofmisery, the prolific swilmarillion, the constant and delightful eveningalchemist, estelyra, sengawolf, sorrowsinger - a very good Maglor!, gaolcrowofmandos, myaire21, cataclysmofstars, fandomsuniteindepression, joeysharku minumi-chan,angbang-in-angband and fantastychica37 - who says she's just here for the D/s smut and for what better reason, I ask you! Special mention to lae-rae-the-spoony-bard - who may or may not still be with the Fandom but that doesn't matter - her art is Most Awesome!
> 
> I follow over five hundred people so there are still a few to go, lol! And there are great people I don't follow just because my Dash is so darned full. Some of them are here. And there will be more, dun-dun-dun!


	4. Silentium Interruptus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon has....some kinks. Unfortunately, he's all business about them. 
> 
> We deal with a couple of mature themes here and provide you, gentle readers, with a bit of insight as to Mairon's upbringing. And a snippet of the world in which he lives.

 

 

_**Silentium Interruptus** _

 

 

All striving, all struggle, had ceased.  Mairon lay with his cheek against the soft padding.  Breathing slowly in, deeply, mostly through his nose though faint breath whistled past the ball gag lodged in his mouth.

Mind absolutely still.  Blessedly silent.         

“ That’s it, that’s good,”

The voice was deep and dark.  It rumbled.

Long muscles completely relaxed, Mairon felt the restraints loosened from his wrists.  From his ankles.  He flexed without moving.

“ Just breathe,” encouraged that deep rumble.

Mairon hummed around the ball gag.  Almost purred.  He lifted his arms over his head, stretching more before he let them rest bonelessly on the padded bench.

 He lay for an indeterminate amount of time, floating within a silent mind.  Enjoying the nothing, the utter nothing, occupying his head.  

He hadn’t come.  He never did, but he reveled in a complete relaxation almost as if he had.  When he opened his eyes, just a crack, he found his vision pleasantly out of focus.

 “ I’m going to get you some water.”  The gag was loosened—removed.    “Stay still.”

He had no energy to nod so he murmured a wordless agreement.  The backs of his thighs were still hot from expert use of a flogger controlled by a deft and practiced hand.  There would be, he knew from experience, no bruising.  The redness would fade by the end of the day.

He arched, groaning a little, as thought once again began to blossom in his mind.  But it was still slow, still low, and very primal.

 _O Rising Lord, he’s good at this._ Mairon thought,  _If only…_

“ All right, my darling, I’m gonna sit you up.”

If only he hadn’t started  _that_  – the endearments.  Mairon didn’t pay for that.

He moved with the large hands that slipped around him, helping him to first roll over and then to sit.  But tension returned to long muscles and tightened under his cheeks.

Mairon looked into a night dark face.  Deep set eyes of the darkest brown.  He frowned.

“ Aw, no, you’ve done so well, don’t scowl now.” Marcus Tennant tried to smooth the hair at Mairon’s brow but the redhead shifted back – just enough.  “ Really, you make me doubt my skills.”

“ Don’t call me darling.” Mairon rasped.  He reached for the glass of water rather than let it be brought to him.

“ Did I?”

“ Again,” Mairon muttered.  Hand visibly unsteady, he lifted the glass and took a long draw.

“ None of my other clients object.”  Marcus sat down on a tripod stool positioned just a foot or two away from his workbench.

“ I’m not your other clients.”

“ Oh, indeed you are not.  You’re leagues beyond them.  I wish I had another client  _anything_ like you.”

Mairon stretched, finished the water, and rose unsteadily to his feet.

“ Not so fast, not so fast.  Give yourself time to come completely out of sub-space," came a soft rumble, almost tender.   Mairon’s scowl grew deeper.

Marcus was, undoubtedly, a very handsome man.  A superbly experienced Dom.  But obviously, he’d developed some form of  _attachment_.  And that wouldn’t do.  Wouldn’t do at all.

Mairon studied the broad face before him.  No, it wouldn’t do.

He handed Marcus back his empty glass.  Damn, it had taken him years to find a professional of this caliber, and he’d been so careful with the bloody contract…

“ Marcus,” slowly, “ I think we need to talk.”

Dark brown eyes flashed at that.  “ Not now,” came the rapid response. 

Mairon avoided the hand that reached out to steady him.  He braced the back of his hot thighs against the bench.  It  _hurt_  but it grounded him.  Let his brain fire back to full life – sadly.  The silence had been so lovely.  So rare and precious.

“ Where are my clothes?”  Mairon looked around the room.  Normally they were close by.  He wouldn’t dissolve their two-year-old contract in just a pair of silk shorts. 

“ Let me get you a snack then have a shower.”

He would normally bathe and eat before heading out.  Back to Curumo’s noisy flat to spend the rest of this Sunday afternoon in a pleasant state of exhausted satisfaction.  Ruined now.

“ Where are my clothes?” Mairon asked again, cultivating distance.

“I moved them to the bathroom.” Marcus frowned.  “Mairon,”

“I’ll dress there.”

His gym bag waited, along with a towel.  The shower door had been opened.  Marion ignored it, choosing to wash quickly in the sink.  He slipped into the outfit he’d brought with him – wishing now he had something business-like rather than shalwar and kurta.  A suit would give him the edge of credibility he needed.

Marcus stood at the window; arms crossed and chin down on his chest when Mairon returned to the Playroom.  He’d turned on instrumental music and soft strains filtered from several speakers hidden throughout the large flat.

Marcus turned.  Thoughtful brown eyes swept Mairon from freshly brushed russet hair to bare feet.  “Sit down a moment, don’t be hasty,”

Mairon set his bag on the floor.  He sank onto the tripod stool.  Swallowed stinging pain and pulled a long-cultivated distance around himself.  Unusual amber-brown eyes assessed Marcus just as the Dom assessed him.  Unspoken impasse impeded the air between them.

“I can amend my technique—I  _will_  amend my technique.  You’re under a great deal of stress at the moment.  I can tell, no matter how impenetrable you seem.  I really wish you’d agree to see me twice a month…”

Mairon’s mouth turned down at the edges.  He did not like either notion—that his controlled façade was not perfect or that he did not understand his own mental state.

“ I think it would help you,” Marcus half sat on the window sill.  For several minutes, soft music was the only sound in the room.  Marcus sighed heavily, breaking the silence.  “ Don’t make any decisions now—today.”

Mairon’s chin came up.  He’d won the little battle, by his perception, forcing Marcus to speak first.  It merely cemented a suspicion that had been long festering: as good a Dom as Marcus was his will wasn’t strong enough…disciplined enough…

“ Promise me you’ll put some serious thought into your decision, not just act on an impulse born of irritation,”

Mairon felt insulted.  His chin lifted.

Marcus realized his mistake, and his face went smooth.  He stood up.  “Wait a week, then call me and let me know what you’ve decided.”

“ I think we’ve run our course – a week won’t change that.”  Mairon dug into his bag and found his soft, slip-on shoes.

“ I insist.” Quietly.

The soft music broke off suddenly.  A modulated voice announced a special bulletin, “ Underground explosions reported from the south in what the EPA is calling a case of gross over-fracking.  Gon-NimRais Mining denies allegations of unsafe operating conditions.  Initial reports confirm that a landslide has caused considerable damage and loss of life in the North Ithilien township of…”

Marcus picked his phone off the windowsill and quickly muted the radio.  “ I really insist.  Call me next Sunday.  I won’t answer a call before then.  And no texting me unless it’s to set up another Session.  I’ll take termination of our contract by voice, though I’d prefer face-to-face, but not by text.”

Mairon listened with blank features, considered for a few moments, and nodded.  Today, next Sunday, it didn’t matter.  One too many ‘my darlings’ had decided him.

His mind sprang to Eönwë standing in Curumo’s kitchen…looking wary…and so very blond…  Straying thought then flitted briefly to the stranger in the wine shop—that deep rumbling voice and the sheer size of him.  It wasn’t often that Mairon felt instant attraction but that had been a primal,  _sexual_  frisson.  Unlike him in every way.

Mairon had put the concept of sex aside many years ago.  Sex required…intimacy.  Sharing emotions.  Got messy and convoluted: counterproductive.  And most certainly took up time better spent achieving concrete results…quantifiable results.

“ Why don’t you eat something before you go?”  Marcus urged, breaking Mairon’s troubled chain of thought.

“ I’m fine,” which was not the truth.  He was distracted, annoyed, and his muscles were only now starting to tremble with after effect.  Every positive thing he got out of their sessions shot to hell.  “ I’ve got to get going.”  Another lie – he had nowhere to go but somewhere he did not want to be.  Marcus, however, couldn’t see past the cool exterior – which was simultaneously what Mairon wanted and what he did not want.

He slipped into his shoes.  The internal conflict only served to irritate him more.  But he extricated himself with his usual aplomb – making it down to the safety of his car.

“ Fuck.”  He whispered, letting his head loll on the rest behind him.  He took the steering wheel in a death grip: striving to ignore the dull, hot, constant pain where the backs of his thighs met the leather seat.  Shaking as he sat there, contemplating going back to Curumo’s flat – abhorring the idea. 

He pulled his phone from the side pocket of his gym bag and found three voicemails waiting.  One was from his foster mother and he listened to it immediately.

“ Rhonee—where are you on a Sunday?  I hope you are not working…you work too much!” An indistinct voice in the background, “ Ah!  Your sister says probably at the gym…I am hoping so.  Everything is all right but you call me back, yes?”

He saved the message.  Everything was probably  _not_  all right – otherwise, she’d wait until tonight and their customary, weekly call.  But he couldn’t deal with it, not at this moment.  Later, he assured himself.  She’d have told him if it was urgent.

The second voicemail was from Aulë and only about thirty seconds long.  Probably just confirming he’d received the report that Mairon had emailed him before leaving the office last night.  For some reason, the Old Man always confirmed by call—probably because emails and texts were new to him and therefore not altogether trusted.

The third voicemail was from Curumo and Mairon flung the phone into the gym bag open on the passenger seat.  Whatever Sal wanted him to pick up on his way back, it could wait.

“ You need food,” he looked at himself in the rearview mirror,  “and juice to get your blood sugar back up.  Sitting here sulking isn’t going to do you any good, Smith, get your ass in gear!”  He continued to sit there.  “ I want falafel,” under his breath, well-aware that it was an urge for comfort food.  The problem was, he didn’t want just any falafel.  He wanted his foster-mother’s; wrapped in pita with red onion, pickles, cucumber slices, a bit of lettuce and a lot of tahini.

He grabbed his phone out of the gym bag.  Twenty minutes later he walked into a little Take-Away tucked into a poorer section of New Gondor.  An immigrant area.  His shalwar and embroidered, key-neck kurta drew no attention here.  In fact, two other men sitting at the tables wore much the same.  The signs up and down the street were written in both Westron and flowing Haradi'Bandi script.

When the young man at the counter asked him what he wanted in thickly accented Westron, Mairon responded in a pure ‘Bandi dialect that brought heads up throughout the shop.

He didn’t notice.  It took everything he had to keep himself from shaking—for reaction had fully set in.  He was dehydrated and weak from both physical and emotional energy spent.

“ I want the pita falafel, with extra tahini on the side.  A pomegranate juice…and a water.”  After he dug out his cash, he had to rest one hand on the counter to steady himself.

“ Are you alright, child?” An older man, grizzled hair above a leather brown face, peered at him sharply from the interior of the kitchen space.  Over a sandwich prep unit.  He spoke in a slightly different dialect.

“ I haven’t eaten today, Grandfather,”

“ Sit down.  Tehker, give him his juice and water.  We’ll bring your falafel over.  You want the pickled red onion?”

“ Yes, thank you, Grandfather,” Mairon took the two bottles the young man handed him.  He left a twenty on the counter.

“ You want harissa?”  The old man asked as Mairon turned away.

“ No, just tahini.”  Sometimes he liked the hot sauce, but not today.  He managed to get to an empty table without embarrassing himself further.  Inhaled sharply as he sat down, and the stinging burn blossomed again. 

Cracking into the pomegranate juice, he took a long draw.  Strong and bittersweet, it clung to his tongue and taste buds.  For a moment, he just sat—savoring the taste of childhood.

The juice and the smell of frying chickpeas made him horribly nostalgic.  It also made his mouth water like mad.  He cracked open the water.  Alternating between it and the juice, he finished half of both before the old man brought him a full plate and his change.

“ With a head like that, your mother named you Mairon, eh?”  With a little smile as he put down the food.

One or another version of the name was commonly given to any boy with the slightest hint of red in his hair.  The mother who’d given him up had certainly done so.  The name Smith had come from Childcare and Protective Services... much better than Doe.

“ She did, Grandfather,” he turned the plate around.  Poured tahini into the open mouth of the pita bread.

“ Eat, boy, eat.  You’re paler than clay.”

Which meant every freckle he had was showing.  As the old man went back to his kitchen, Mairon wrapped first his hands and then his mouth around the sandwich.  Normally he avoided fried foods— falafel could be baked, after all—but right now nothing equaled the satisfaction of biting into the large, round lumps buried amid pickles, cucumber, and the wilted tang of red onion.  He poured the water into the pomegranate juice and used the mix to wash down impolitely large bites.

Despite the fact that it was a generous pita, stuffed full, it didn’t last long.  He sat for about another ten minutes before he got up, took the tenner from his change, and tucked it in the tip jar beside the register.

The young man grinned and thanked him.

“ Do you have a menu I can take?”  He wasn’t often in this part of the city, and he liked fava beans in with the chickpeas, but he’d make sure to come back here—especially if they had a traditional Harad salad— when he could.

The youth handed him a tri-folded piece of paper.  As he glanced over the menu, he spoke to the back of the prep area, “ Thank you, Grandfather, may the Rising Lord smile on you and your family.”  In his elegant ‘Bandi.

The old man gave back the traditional response to the old blessing, “ May His shadow cover you.”

Mairon found salads on the last page—complete with labneh, olives, and pickled eggplant.  He smiled and lifted the menu, “ I’ll be back.”

He strolled up the street to where he’d parked his Audi.  After putting the menu in the glove box, he dug a scrap of paper from the side pocket of his gym bag.  He looked at the number written on it below a defunct little shopping list.  Tapped the number into his phone—it being Sunday, he intended to leave a message—but the call connected after the third ring.

“ Bell Real Estate and Rentals,” a male voice said, singsong,  “how can I help you?”

Mairon’s red-brown eyebrow rose.  “ I’m calling about the flat on Hobbs Hill?  Is it still available?”

“ Yes.  Yes, it certainly is.  When would you like to view it?”

“ As soon as possible.”

“ Monday—at  one?”

“ I’ll meet you there.  My name is Mairon Smith.”

“ Of course it is.”

“…excuse me?” Mairon couldn’t have heard him correctly.

“ I said, 'Of course, we’ll see you then'.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The D/s elements begin. But this is not a sexual relationship, it's contractual business. It's also sublimation for a control freak who has no time for sex or intimacy. Don't hate poor Marcus, he's very good at what he does.  
> The fandom appreciation list will have to wait for the next chapter, please forgive me. A technical difficulty has arisen tonight but I'll be back to it in the next chapter.
> 
> Also, to keep ahead of you all, gentle readers, I fear I have to go to single chapter posts and those will probably start next week. But, I wanted to give you a good solid start! And some of these chapters are short...well, for me anyway.
> 
> Five and six are good to go. Seven is being slashed and burned as we speak. There are others, but they need filler chapters so they make sense and then to be arranged in their proper order.
> 
> Thank you for your comments, and encouragement!
> 
> No one take off those seatbelts, this ride is just getting started. Get your bag of snacks ready.


	5. There has to be a Catch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly,  
> 'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy;  
> The way into my parlour is up a winding stair,  
> And I've a many curious things to show when you are there.”  
> ~ Mary Howitt (1799–1888)

**_There has to be a Catch_ **

 

The flat is, quite frankly, magnificent.  Hardwood floors polished to a high shine stretch below him.  He wants to take off his shoes.  Walking on such wood in anything that’s touched pavement seems sacrilegious.

“ This entire floor,” says the estate agent, a dark-haired man who introduced himself as Harry Lang, “ With a renovated kitchen, a full bath, half -bath, two bedrooms, a small study and this room.”

“ This room” is huge and incorporates the turret running up all three stories.  A partial octagon at one end allows for tall windows that extend almost floor to ceiling.

“ Also, you have access to one-third of the basement for storage.”

He nodded and slipped off his dress shoes before daring to go further.  Mr. Lang watched expressionlessly from just inside the pair of pocket doors he’d unlocked to let them enter.

“ When was the kitchen installed?”  Mairon asked as he pads across wide wooden boards.  He pauses at one of the windows to look down on an expanse of grass and beyond it a remarkably quiet street.  The next house over is some distance away, and two elm trees provide a stretching canopy of cool shade and privacy.

 “ Eighteen months ago.  All new appliances installed, counters, cabinets, and – as you’ll see – the island.”  Lang responds, now walking slowly into the main room.  His heels clack, setting up a slight echo.  Mairon’s eyes turn to track the noise, a faint frown pulling his brows together.

There has to be a Catch.  For this price, and with such a small security deposit, there must be some underlying issue.

Mr. Lang gestured, inviting him to explore. 

Mairon Smith is an immaculate figure: dark russet hair more red than brown pulled into a neat tail that hangs halfway down his back.  His bespoke suit is obviously expensive and pressed so well that – even at this hour of the day – not a single wrinkle dares disturb the shining fabric.  The perfectly maintained shoes he left by the door are polished to a dull shine and hardly show any wear.  He looks prosperous and meticulous - very, very uptight.

As he disappears into the kitchen, Mr. Lang reaches for the phone in his pocket a moment before it vibrates.  It moves like a live thing in his hand, indicating a text has arrived.  Dr. Smith asks from the kitchen, “ Is this a convection oven?”

“ Yes,” The estate agent responds as he walks slowly through the dining area towards the arched entry which opens into the kitchen.  He unlocks his phone and reads the words appearing on his screen.  He types a rapid response before he slips it back into his front pocket.

“ Town gas?” Mairon asks, studying the four-burner cooktop inset into an island-com-breakfast bar standing free in the middle of the spacious room.

“ Yes, indeed.”

“ Good.  More efficient, better control,” Mairon says as he tests all four burners.

Once the kitchen meets his general approval, they return through the open dining room that leads back into the main room.  Then they inspect both bedrooms – each generously proportioned.  The master bedroom has a full bath with a tub/shower arrangement and the bath along the hall has a shower and a large mirror above the sink.  There’s also the study with two tall narrow windows that catch the early morning sunlight.  When at last they end in the utility room with its washer and dryer combo, a cool demeanor reveals absolutely nothing of Mairon’s inner thoughts.

“ I’m perplexed,” He says.  But from facial expression or tone of voice, one would never know.  “ A small family could make use of this much space quite comfortably.”

“ No children, no pets,” Mr. Lang responds firmly.  “ There aren’t many Queen Adûnaphels left in the village.  You’re looking at a great deal of the original wood.  Most of the floors, the moldings, the wainscoting – certainly the main staircase,”

Which they’d walked up to get to the second floor.  It curved around the landing to extend up to a third level.  Mairon remembered the wide banisters silken under hand.  The fragile turned balusters, carved finials capping the newel posts. 

He nodded thoughtfully.  Those lovingly carved wooden panels, “ Black walnut.”  Mairon murmurs.

“ All restored by hand.”  Harry Lang confirms.  “ It’s been empty quite a while.  You could move in immediately.”

“ Let me see the contract.”  Mairon turns, holding out his hand.

The estate agent gives him a single sheet.  Mairon glances at it quickly, noting that it’s a relatively simple document.  The owner is remarkably generous covering issues of damage, of maintenance, of returning the security deposit.

This is ALL too good to be true.  Again, Mairon wonders,  _What is The Catch?_ But there are no signs of water leakage, no squeaking floorboards, not a whiff of must or mold or moisture…  The location is quiet, perfect, and less than five minutes from the motorway.

“ I’ll call you soon.”  Mairon folds the document in precise thirds and tucks it into the interior breast pocket of his expensive bespoke suit.  “ Thank you for your time, Mr. Lang.”  He offers his hand.

“ Dr. Smith,” the dark-haired man has a firm, though slightly cold, handshake.  He locks the sliding pocket doors behind them as Mairon starts down the wide stairwell.

Doctor Smith doesn’t hear Harry Lang mutter under his breath, “ Proud... Nitpicking… Perfect.  It’s him.  This time, it surely is.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trap is laid, and it's a very attractive trap. Perhaps, if our Mairon weren't in such a state of emotional upheaval he'd pay attention to that little, warning voice.
> 
> Last Tuesday as I was posting Chapter 4, the plumbing went mad and I spent all that night bailing water from the shower. Literally bailing bucket after bucket of water until it suddenly stopped at 5:40AM. Seems there was a blockage in the sewer just under the house and I don't even want to think about what was in that water. I'm just about recovered from the beating I took that night. So now I continue with both the story and the Fandom appreciation. :)
> 
> So here's to Tolkien-in-beleriand, with much love, and ithilielthechosenone, one of the sweetest people you ever want to meet, elfmaiddryope - wonderfully warm and kind,nuredhel – a prolific talent, and who’s funny stuff is just a joy to read! And though she's shifted Fandoms, Suzannart who is a most gracious and talented person, Across-cypress-trees.  
> Belekoroz, MOrket – who’s artistic talent is just awe inspiring! Celebunn who's presence always lights up my Dash,  
> mrk1pk - who is one of the first people I followed and whom I don't see enough of these days, No-soul-no-problems - whom I have and will follow forever, greenairsheep, Phobs – who’s Angbang is So Epic that it inspired an entire website,  
> eomer - who has the best icon! xjuliuscaesarx - who is newly in my orbit and a pleasure on my Dash, feanope - whom I have long followed and don't see enough, Probs-dying,Lordmelkor – who’s art is fantastical and fantastic and tonight we end with Priestofmelkor - a delightful fellow fan of Mairon.
> 
> I've expanded into the whole Darn Tolkien Fandom now, and without regret. There's something about Tolkien's fans - whether they're movie or book based, they understand that “Even the smallest person can change the course of the future” and "...it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love." <3 Thank you all for making my Fandom experience truly wonderful! (And since it's a huge fandom, there will be more come.)


	6. A Table for One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A goal-oriented perfectionist discovers that there might be more to life than he's experienced so far.

**_A Table for One_ **

 

Mairon paused at the Maître D’s station, looking back into the dining room.  He notes there’s not a vacant table in sight.  The restaurant is full: surprising for nine-thirty on a Tuesday night.

The atmosphere is dim and close.  Private.  Cool green walls with velvet wallpaper match the plush carpet below his feet.  A melodic murmur of low conversation rolls unhurried from the long, low room.  At the far end, there’s a gleaming mahogany bar backed by a full-length mirror.

When the Maître D’ approaches, Mairon doesn’t know exactly what to say.  He opens his mouth, frowns, and looks at the slip of paper in his hand.

“ I was told I could get a bottle of Jean-Charles Boisset Pinot Noir, Number 3, 2010, here?” Skating quickly over the pronunciation.

“ Ah, yes, this way please, Mr. Smith.”  The young man gives him a polished smile, one hand gesturing before him.  Before Mairon can say anything more, the Maître D’ moves into the dining room as if he expects Mairon to follow.  So he does.  They wind between the several tables then turn left.

He frowns harder as he realizes he’s been led to a private room…with a table set for one.  The well-suited host actually pulls out the chair for him.  Before Mairon realizes exactly what he’s doing, he sits.

“ Enjoy your meal.”

And with that he’s alone.  He shakes his head to himself as if to clear it.  He looks over the fine china, the sparkling crystal, and his eyes fall on a folded piece of paper left on the table.  It stands alone, away from the setting and the centerpiece.  Intensely curious, he lifts it and opens the single fold.

“ You’re late. ”

Mairon stares at the two little words, written in flowing black script that seem to move on the paper.  As if the ink is still fluid.  He starts when someone sweeps into the room and looks around to find the Sommelier – he recognizes the long silver necklace and its silver tastevin – with an already open bottle.

“ JCB Pinot Noir Number 3, a very fine choice!  Compliments of Mr. Bell.”  She pours a splash into one of the two crystals wineglasses.  Then stands back to wait.

Mairon blinks in surprise, automatically reaching for the wine.  He knows what’s expected of him, but he thinks this is farcical.  He wouldn’t know a Bordeaux from a Tuscan!

He looks at the deep red, he swirls it, sniffs it, and finally swishes a small taste over his palette.  His eyes widen.  He may not know wine, but this is…delicious!  Ripe, complex, and fruity.  As the Sommelier fills his glass, he murmurs appreciative thanks.  The Sommelier smiles approvingly before she leaves the bottle on the table.

Mairon considers that he has to drive home.  It’s a pity he can’t do this wine the justice it deserves.  He also wonders if he…blew off a date?  Having never had one, he isn’t sure.  Taking a second sip, he tries to make sense of his situation.

As he ponders, a server glides into the room and deposits a plate before him.

“ King Ribeye steak, cremini mushrooms, in a green peppercorn reduction, Delmonico potatoes, and bacon asparagus.”

Mairon blinks as the richly layered scents of beef, mushrooms, and mild green peppercorns fill his head.  He knows he should not accept this meal…but it smells heavenly and looks, oh it looks even better.  Perfect portions.  Perfect plating.  His mouth is actually watering.  He’d skipped lunch. 

The thought of turning his nose up to _this_...going home to settle for yogurt and perhaps a leftover slice of whatever grease infused pizza Curumo had in his fridge…

“ Thank you.”  Mairon glanced up at the waiter as he reached for the folded linen napkin, “ It looks wonderful.”

“ Enjoy your dinner.  Please let me know if you require anything else?”

“ I certainly will,” Mairon assured as he lays the napkin across his lap.  As the first small bite of steak melts on his tongue, doubly enhanced by the smooth spice of green peppercorns and the earthy tang of tiny mushrooms, he considers how much he’s been missing in life.  A sip of the rich wine merely enhances the feeling.

Later, when he tries to settle the bill, he finds it’s been paid by his absent host.  Not only that, the Sommelier hands him an unopened bottle of the Pinot Noir.

“ Compliments of Mr. Bell,” the Sommelier gave him a grin, “ we’re always happy to send home the partial bottle…would you like it?”  She offered to cork the bottle he’d had with dinner.

Mairon put a much bigger dent in it than he’d intended - three glasses with that incredible steak.  More than a little tipsy, he smiles back at the Sommelier and says he’ll take it.  “ And, could I leave a message for Mr. Bell?  To thank him.  He usually eats here on Tuesdays?”

“ Oh, he’s here two or three days a week – one of our regulars.  He likes good food.  And wine.”

Once a notepad and pen were brought, Mairon quickly composed a thank you note.  His writing, usually obsessively uniform, sprawled just a little under the effects of the wine.  A few moments debate about including his cell number decided him against it.  Who knew how many eyes would pass over the little square of paper?

Humming to himself, he deposited a generous cash tip on the table and, collecting both bottles of wine, he made his way out.  Just a little unsteady.

“ Goodnight, Mr. Smith,” the Maitre D’ caroled.

Mairon paused, “ _Doctor_ Smith,” he corrected assiduously.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first thread has been cast - and the way to a Maia's heart starts with his appreciation of the finer things.
> 
> I know I said I was going over to single chapters but this story has such a slow build, and the chapters are so short - I really just can't justify it to myself. I may have to slow down but today is not that day!
> 
> Today I mounted a shelf on wall with an engineer and it is not true - meaning level. Helped hang a picture with my mother and it is not true - also meaning level. Then we moved furniture around in the classic - just a little left, no your other left, sit-com fashion. I want to take life by its shoulders, shake it, and tell it that it has to stop interfering with my darned writing. But I doubt it will listen...so to everyone else who keeps getting spanners thrown in their writing works - keep up the good fight when you can! It's so worth it - even if it's only one sentence a day!
> 
> And now to keep singing the praise of wonderful people - elsilmarillionno, Usvan - thank you for being one of my latest followers! Lordofthegoldenflower, cause Glorfindel deserves ALL the Love!, Admirable-mairon, gooooothmoooog  
> Lacrimosa-magnolia, Nyaramaitar, The-disaster-that-is-melkor, Morphym37 - whose art inspires me and many others - it's so awesome!, Mynameiseyyyyyy, Vampiraptor, Naamah-beherit - whose writing in Tolkien and Angbang has given me so much joy, Morenotles - you bring such class to my Dash!, Lordelrontheconsultingdetective and last but never least -elwethiel-daughter-of-the-forest. There can be such drama on Tumblr - thank you all for making my experience drama-free and so much fun! A mouse can never thank you enough!


	7. A Place to Call Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was probably very remiss of me not to mention that this story seems to be becoming a full-on novel. Sorry about that everyone - this story seems to be becoming a darned novel.
> 
> So, our Mairon has made his choice and found a new place to call home. Or, has it found him? And who...or what...in literal Hell, is living upstairs?

 

**_A Place to Call Home_ **

 

 

Harry Lang had left Mairon’s copy of the rental agreement on the kitchen island.  The estate agent was gone after pocketing his own copy and handing over two sets of keys: a key to the front door, one to the flat, and one to the detached garage at the rear of the old mansion.  And a spare set to all.  Mairon held both in his hand. Weighing them in his palm.  Implications finally setting in…he was home.

If he were a different man, he’d have danced for joy.  Walking from room to room, looking out _his_ windows, testing the water in _his_ taps, peering into _his_ empty closets…Mairon found himself almost giddy.

All this silence, _his_!  Mairon stood barefoot in the empty flat.  Triumph, elation – he spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and tipped his face up.   Basking in stillness and privacy.

It didn’t matter that he had no furniture.  He’d sleep on the floor…

Aulë had happily given him the day off, just as he’d happily let Mairon duck out at lunchtime on Monday to view the flat.  Aulë was of the opinion – only occasionally expressed – that Mairon worked far too much.

Curumo had been very surprised and perhaps just a little disappointed (though Mairon couldn’t imagine why!) on Tuesday night when he announced that he’d finally found a new place.  And that he’d be moving out immediately.

Nearly a year of hell - **over**!

“ Lord Arising,” he whispered, “ May Your Shadow cover all the Land, And every head bow before You in Reverence, As You bring Blessed Darkness over the sand.”  The ancient Haradrim prayer echoed softly, reverberating within empty walls.

 

 

In the flat above, a tall man dozing on a comfortable couch sat up suddenly.  His hands spread wide, palms downward.  They appeared to shape, and caress thin air.

A rush of energy stirred long black hair causing it to move around Him like a living cloud; undulating and whispering with a silent voice.  He rose to His feet.

Looking over the wooden floor, He considered the power moving around Him.  A prayer of gratitude and worship…most certainly.  Strong, very strong.

Translucent shadows stirred in every corner.  Rippled through carpet tassels and rustled the slat blinds that kept Arien’s obnoxious radiations at bay.  Restive excitement stirred the very air.

“ Hold, hold,”  He murmured, turning one hand out in a quelling gesture.  The blinds stopped shivering.  The carpet tassels stilled themselves.  “We’ve been deceived before…simply because a thing is desired does not make it so.  That, I have learned to my detriment.  Patience, little ones, patience.”

Several shadows quivered in their corners, growing darker in frustrated disappointment.  But one bold shade slipped over the floorboards to wind around bare ankles and caress the flesh of unshod feet.  It thickened with matter.  Becoming opaque and then solid.  A large grey rat coalesced out of nothing.  Then, with a bloom of dark smoke, it became a singularly unattractive figure the size of a human child.

Big black eyes stared up at him.  Little hands lifted, and the small spirit cheeped.  When no response came, it drew its hands down its face in a slow, ceremonial fashion.  Dropping to all fours, it pressed a pale cheek to the top of one foot and cheeped again.

“ I know, I know.”  He sank to one knee and laid His large hand over a small head – covering it completely with His palm.  Cupping its nape with delicate fingertips, He gently urged that ghastly face to lift up to His own.  The embodied goblin stared up at Him.  It scowled.

“ I rely on thee,” He crooned, “ To be my vision, my hearing, my clever spy.  For none of thy siblings knows him so well.”  He stroked the slick black head beneath His palm, in a shocking gesture of…perhaps… affection and comfort.

The lesser spirit wrapped both hands around a strong wrist and pressed a couple of quick kisses to whatever flesh it could reach.  It chittered softly.

“ Yes, I miss him, too.”  He said very quietly.  “ Now,” He released the dark head and commanded in a low rumble, “ Maia, go - do.”  The creature’s flesh discoporated: creating another burst of thin black smoke.  A swirling shadow raced across the floor to disappear through an air duct.  A second shade shot out from the kitchen and promptly followed.

“ Shall we have a ditty or a reel?”  The tall figure asked.  He moved toward a parlor grand piano.  It took up the entire portion of the room created by the octagon turret that rose the length of the old house.  Musical instruments of every sort, ancient and modern, littered the large room.

“ Or a concerto?”  He sat and ran long fingers over the ivory keys.  Quick scales filled the air with rising and falling notes before He began Schubert’s Adagio in E Major D. 612.

A collective, crooning sigh wafted from the lurking shadows.  Echoing their Master’s melancholy.

 

Below, Mairon looked up from where he stood in the kitchen.  He had both his laptop and portable WiFi hotspot set up on the island that dominated the room.

Mouth moving in silent wonder and disbelief for a moment, he stared at the ceiling.  Amber brown eyes widened - grew absolutely huge.  Fingers stilled on the keyboard.  He forgot about the bedroom sets displayed on his browser.

“ Oh,” to himself in amazement and joy.  He breathed, “ oh, yes, that’s… glorious.”  Slow-paced notes cascaded over his face.  His eyes sank closed.

He remained frozen in place for five whole minutes with his face lifted to the sublime music.  The final notes trailed away and, eyes opening, he made a mournful noise.  “More,” he whispered to the ceiling for he felt for sure it wasn’t a sound system.  “ Play something else…”

As if in response, Schubert’s Adagio in G Major D. 178 wafted down to him.  He rested his elbows on the island, either side of his laptop, and supported his chin in cupped hands.  As the piece quickened and rose to its soft but dramatic little crescendo, Mairon’s head tipped to one side.

“ I like this flat very much,” he murmured, “ I’m going to be happy here.”

Completely unaware of the shadows swirling just inside the half-closed pantry door, he hummed with the continuing music as he, finally, resumed his search for furniture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now we see a little of what's going on in the upstairs flat. And a tremendous amount of patience being exercised...but then He's no longer in pain, or driven mad by constant interference from an iron crown inset with three glowing gemstones of cunning Noldor design. Perhaps He's feeling a little bit more like His old self, eh?
> 
> I'm sorry I've been scarce - we've been entertaining, and getting ready for a veritable avalanche of family to arrive on Feb. 6th. I assure you, it's not been fun and games but rather vacuuming, laundry and emptying packing boxes. I'm fighting tooth and nail for my writing time amid all this chaos - Melkor would feel right at home!
> 
> And I love my Fandom! Y'all keep me pleasantly insane instead of unhappily "normal" So here's to breathing-balmy-zephyrs - my most recent follower: thank you for finding me and I promise I'll be blogging with more regularity soon! And ijustwantmyshipstobehappy, who's followed me a long time now! Hi, old friend! Theelvenscholar, who's prim Erestor never fails to get me smiling. Starlightwalking, one-doesnt-simply-walk-in-bagend, tolkienfantasy, Mairon-ate-my-fish - darn I love that name and have for at least a year, not to mention their great avatar! And a respectful nod to  
> Markedasinfernal who also goes by theeventualwinner - I'm sure a lot of you recognize that name! Everyone stay clear of the bench. Just. Stay. Away. Then there's eldamaranquendi and the Most Incredible dawnfelagund! You want to learn something about Tolkien - Dawn's your way. Academic and entertaining! Deep stuff. Then there's the-other-wesley - who's presence on my Dash always brings a happy note. And last, but not least - l-o-t-r! Our timelines have diverged lately, but when I do see you - it's always a pleasure! Again, I do not follow all these people - but that's because my Dash would race by at an incomprehensible pace. Not all these people Follow me, and that's all right - they're still great!
> 
> If you think someone should be here, and you don't see them as I post along, please feel free to offer a suggestion - our Fandom fluctuates and grows daily. Faster than I can keep track of as Life hauls me along behind it. Thank you!


	8. Never Question the Cards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, what about the downstairs flat? Who lives there, you ask.

**_Never Question the Cards_ **

 

The woman from the downstairs flat was…Goth?  Eccentric.  Mairon paused at the foot of the main staircase as she locked her door.  She turned, assessing him, and strolled up the depths of the dim hallway.  Mairon gave her a polite nod.

She was tall and shapely under a fringed black lace parasol.  Her makeup bordered on Roman Matron lead-white.  If he were a superstitious man, the sight of her open umbrella, here in the hallway, might raise hackles.  Mairon didn’t subscribe to any of that shit.

 Jet-black hair hung in a curtain over sloped shoulders.  Heavy bangs framed a striking set of equally jet-black eyes lined with matching kohl.

“ Mr. Smith?”

“ _Doctor_ Smith.”  He corrected.

“ Dr. Smith.”  A languid hand, in fingerless black lace gloves, stretched out to him.  “ Terese Withywindle.  Harry Lang said you’d be moving in this week.”

“ Ms. Withywindle,” he shifted the box in his arms from right to left so he could engage her handshake.  She wrapped his hand in her long fingers and kept it.

“ Terese,” a sensuous smile lifted lips painted reddish plum.  Her teeth, he noted, seemed absurdly long, and too white.  Almost pearlescent.

“ Mairon,” he returned, dipping his head in reaction to the Gothic vibe she radiated.

“ You must come have a drink when you're settled.”  She tipped the parasol back onto her shoulder as she moved right into his space and continued to hold his hand captive.  Her lead-white face angled up to his.  From this proximity, her eyes seemed even blacker and disconcertingly large.  “ I’d be pleased to read _your_ cards…”

Mairon stood speechless.  Having no idea what in Udûn’s lowest hell she meant, he had no polite response at his command.  Cards?

“ A neighborly gesture,” she gave a silken laugh.  Terese Withywindle sent him a probing look, “ Your Tarot.  I’m a Medium and Taromancer.”

As Mairon’s stare remained blank, she added, “ A Cartomancer -  though I also offer Chiromancy, Tasseomancy, and…sometimes…Necromancy if those departed have a message to relay.”  And when he continued to look at her without comprehension, “ A Psychic.  A Fortune Teller?”

 _A nut-job,_ he thought.  It explained the Gothic thing she had going, though, and it was none of his business who she bilked to pay her rent.

“ That would be…interesting.”  He lied with an even gaze and bland voice.

“ Once you're settled,” she nodded slowly, “ one evening we’ll have a glass of wine and I’ll throw your cards…it should be _very_ interesting.”  Her smile seemed to imply something, some secret they should share – damned if he knew what it was.

“ I’m sorry, I don’t drink.”  He gave her his professional smile; the one Aulë complained did not reach his eyes.  He tried to formulate a hasty, polite brush-off…

 “ I’m off to see a client – if I weren’t already a wee bit late I’d invite you in now…”

“ Sometime soon then,” Unfortunately.  He ground his teeth behind the practiced smile.  It meant he might have to see her again - which he definitely did _not_ want.  “ I work long hours ”  He explained that he left early and, “ I never get back before eight.”

“ I’ll see if I can’t catch you for that reading sometime,” she gave him a narrow glance before they parted, “ Mairon Smith.”  Her heels clacked out a rhythm on the hardwood hall floor.

“ Ms. Withywindle.”  Mairon shifted his box from one hand to another so he could grab the balustrade and take the stairs up two at a time.  As his long legs made short work of the second story landing, he flipped his keys to the correct one and let himself into his silent flat.  “ ‘Fortune Teller’ - fucking nut,” he announced to the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next week's chapters are in the can, to steal a phrase from the movie industry. They will be posted before the insanity of Visiting Family begins. Hopefully, I can slash and burn my way through Nine and Ten enough to have them ready while the circus goes on....all prayers and wishes for strength will be humbly, gratefully grabbed with all twenty claws!
> 
> With much appreciation, and respect to - littlestmun, who has graced my Dash for a very long time and who presence gives me much happiness. And, theoneandfuturestarscream – wait, you say, that's not Tolkien, but they get honorable mention because even if their avatar name is Transformers - they're obviously a loyal fan of Tolkien, and Angbang, as well! Please let me include melkomelko – who produces some awesome art with a raw rage metal twist!  
> Then there's gotlostinthefandom - who is an old mutual from the very earliest of my Tumbler days! It's always a pleasure! Let's add, mari-maritmus – who’s art of Mairon is just astounding! Eye-popping astounding! Since we're talking artists -it would be remiss not to mention dymonstarrillustrations – who’s got some serious talent! Glorious stuff! And alyruko – because Mairon with cat ears is irresistible! Thu-kitty! And tonight we end with the inestimable  
> Lordsofhimlad! 
> 
> Y'all take care until next week! May you come from darkness into light, and may your second breakfasts all be hot! <3!


	9. Rat in the Basement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mairon has just met his downstairs neighbor, whom he considers at best a fraud and at worst a nutcase. Now he's bringing things to store in his section of the basement. Let's see what's lurking there, shall we?

**_Rat in the Basement_ **

 

 

The stairs were tight.  And steep.  Mairon maneuvered the box from left to right so he could peer around it.  Feeling with his foot, he found the tread beneath and continued down.

Despite the bright afternoon outside, the basement was dim.  Dark, actually.  An overhead light fought to make some impact on the gloom but failed.  Cool, musty air rose up to surround him.  He heard the noise of his shoe on cement rather than wood and concluded that he’d hit bottom.

Mairon lowered the box and looked around.  Dust.  Plenty of dust.  It lay pale on the empty shelves stretching along one stone wall to his left and coated both windows and sills.  No wonder it was so dark down here.

“ This won’t do,” he said to himself.

After depositing his box on one of the shelves, he turned to look around his third of the basement.  He realized it was a maze without hallways: doors leading from one room to another.  As he looked into the doorway across from him, he realized not all those rooms had windows.

Being in a suit and good shoes, he was disinclined to explore.  Come Sunday, he thought, he’d don sweats and come down with the vacuum.  And some rags.  And possibly something strong enough to attack that filthy windowpane.

He paused a moment, debating whether to lug the box back up with him.  Arguing with himself – because it was only a box of Tech manuals – when he heard a faint scratching…skritching….noise from deep within those dark rooms.

Intense curiosity filled Mairon and he edged toward the black opening.  A failing or a virtue, curiosity was an integral part of his personality.  Mairon needed to _know_.  Hunger for factual data throbbed just below his conscious mind, at all times and in all situations.  He stepped into the heavy gloom.

The intermittent sound continued.  There were intervals, and louder moments – scratch, **skritch** , scratch – to follow with cautious steps.  Little noises led him deep into the unlit maze.

Stacked boxes created dark monoliths to avoid.  Cast even darker patches amid the shadows.  He caught a hint of movement out of the corner of one eye and paused.  Found himself looking at his own reflection in a dust-encrusted, standing oval mirror.  A faint metallic clang echoed briefly in the dark.

Skritch….he continued to track the faint sounds.  Scratch.  He found a hulking black monster that turned out to be an ancient furnace.  An elaborate set of pipes blossomed from its top and disappeared into the ceiling.  It looked old but, as it suddenly came to life, sounded new.  After a first whoosh of fuel, it purred.  Quietly efficient.  Flickering light shown around the edges of the large, cast iron, firebox door.

It was then he became aware of a smell competing with the musk and dust – a faint, sweetish odor.  It brought to mind roasting pork.

He realized the faint noises had stopped.  Then, he saw it.  At first, a tiny set of glimmering red eyes reflecting light escaping from the furnace door.  As his vision adjusted, he made out the rest of it – a dark lump motionless on the floor with a long…thin….tail!

Mairon breathed out, “ Rat!”  He leaned down to get a better view…and the reflecting eyes winked out.  The lump moved backward so fast he could barely track the motion.  He heard the sound of tiny claws on cement…then nothing.

“ Damn,” under his breath, “ there’s your Catch, Smith.”  A good-sized rat in the basement.  Nothing that a nice big trap wouldn’t take solve.  

He turned to retrace his steps, not noticing the small black puffball of fur frozen six inches from his feet.  One wide step would crush it flat. 

After he’d moved away, the puffball collapsed on the cement floor with the tiniest wheeze of relief.  A large grey rat darted out from under the furnace.  It paused a moment to pat at singed whiskers.  Then it rushed forward and sniffed the puffball over from pointy nose to shivering tail.  The rat pulled itself up on its hind legs so it could give the puffball a few light bats with an open paw before picking it up in careful jaws.  Then they raced - following Mairon’s retreat.

They stopped at the landing, looking upward, in time to watch the backs of highly polished shoes disappear up the steps.  A cloud of thick, ashy smoke swirled into existence.  Two translucent shapes formed.  Solidified.  A pair of small creatures – with ghastly pale and pointed faces – stared intently up the stairs.  One began to ascend, on all fours, until the other pulled it back.

For a moment, they squatted face to face, heads tipping back and forth as if engaged in silent conversation.  One wore a ragged grey frock and laddered black tights.  The other clad in a threadbare black tunic and baggy brown leggings. 

The one in the frock, who’d started up the stairs, threw both hands in the air – waving them in violent exultation.  She, for this face was delicately defined, lifted huge black eyes to the ceiling, and emitted an ultrasonic tune of ecstasy.  The other, sporting a crop of ill-kempt, short black hair, shook his head and plonked his ass down in the dust.

She smacked him again.  He didn’t flinch, just shook his head one more time.  So, she batted him across the other arm for good measure.  He still didn’t flinch.  She reached out sharp fingers to grab one of his small pointed ears, but he twitched his head away at just the right moment.  As if he had a great deal of experience avoiding her pinches.

She glared at him and stomped one little bare foot in the dust.  He gave her a look…and she glared at him harder.  The impasse lasted perhaps two whole minutes.  Then he indicated a spot on his shoulder.  One she hadn’t hit.  She pointedly turned her face away; crossing her arms tight across her thin chest.  He heaved a sigh.

Rising to his feet, he chittered softly.  Gestured back into the dark where the furnace purred and flared.  She huffed.  Crossed her arms tighter.  He leaned over and licked her face – a good long lick from chin to temple.  She hopped away and unfolded her arms to flail at him – just a little.  He laughed silently and stuck his black tongue out again.

She turned and fled toward the furnace.  He cheeped and followed.  When they came to the furnace, he grabbed a long poker from an old-fashioned coal-scuttle.  Handing it to her, he went to the furnace’s big door and took hold of its nickel-plated lever.  She took her position.  He swung open the door.

Just inside, lay a human hand – palm up.  Wizened fingers curled and starting to blacken at the edges.  But it was a little too far out of the furnace’s full conflagration.  Though the arm had burned away, the wrist remained.

She used the long poker to push it fully into white-hot flames.  He let the door swing wide.  As a puff of sweet, meaty scent billowed out of the opening, they crouched to watch the hand sizzle and claw up like a dead spider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I regret that this week is incredibly hectic. I am forced to a. leave replies and comments hanging but I will respond to all at my first available opportunity and b. forgo my Fandom appreciation rant for these two chapters. 
> 
> Family starts arriving this evening until next Tuesday and then, the same day, a stray sister arrives for yet another week. But, at least it's only the one sister and I should get some time for myself as she's pretty independent. She has local friends with whom she will be socializing so I'll get time to respond to comments while she's here.
> 
> If anyone chooses to leave a comment. 
> 
> Chapters 11 and 12 are written and suffering under the editing process so next week's update is looking hopeful despite all this chaos - whew!
> 
> I humbly thank you in advance, gentle readers, for your patience!


	10. Assumptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gossip is rife at Artano Industries... And in the upstairs flat, a hope is born anew. And poor Mairon, Aulë is such a nice person and a happy extrovert. He just doesn't get his best employee.

**_Assumptions_ **

 

 

“ He took Wednesday off – he could be sick…”

“ He’s _never_ sick.  If he were _dying_ , he’d still come in.”

“ I heard he finally moved out of Sal’s,”

“ _Who_ told you that?”

“ Sal.”  Wenna Vale nodded sagely, “ This morning.  Oh, he’s moving to the Pec Deck,” her face, along with half a dozen others, turned.  A series of appreciative murmurs and sighs followed.  Some of them around a mouthful of sandwich.

Artano Industries had an in-house gym.  With a spark of questionable inspiration, some bright young architect had thought that installing large windows instead of solid walls around the main workout room would surely encourage employee participation.  This well-meaning soul could not have anticipated that it would, instead, become an observation venue – an ogling point, in fact.

A little group regularly gathered during lunch break to stand with sandwiches and Tupperware in hand.  Especially on those days that a certain Project Director skipped his own meal.

Doctor Mairon Smith, supremely unaware that he was the object of this ogling, sweated as he did sets: eyes closed, earbuds installed and lost in loud classical music.

After delivering a sealed envelope to the secretary guarding Aulë’s office and inner sanctum, Eönwë Úrion came up to the back of the group.  And got sucked in.

“ His chest is waxed,”  said one of three young men; a minor Marketing exec.

“ He’s a redhead, they aren’t hairy.  It doesn’t mean a thing!”  A young woman out of the secretarial pool contradicted heatedly.

“ And his hair – it’s always perfect!  Coiffed, you might say.” This from the second young man – a junior in Accounts Receivable.

The women collectively scowled, but their eyes remained fixed in place.

“ Not every guy’s a caveman!” Wenna Vale snapped.  “ Some men take pride in their appearance!”

“ Have you ever looked at his socks – they’re silk.”  The Marketing exec pointed out.

“ He wears £2,000 suits every day – he’s gay.”  The guy from Accounts stated flatly.

“ Oh, I hope so!” Said Marketing. 

“ He’s not!”  All the women insisted in one voice.

“ I’ve been here as long as he has -  no boyfriend, or girlfriend, would put up with the hours  and days he works.”  The third fellow, from Security, said, “ He’s completely asexual.  A walking computer.  A Mainframe in a suit.”

A vague, unhappy murmur ran through the group, especially the women.  Not one of them could actually contradict that.

“ Maybe he just needs to meet the right guy.”  The Marketing exec was not about to give up his hope for the future so easily.

“ Or girl!”  Neither was metallurgist Wenna Vale.

Eönwë’s lips curved into a secret little smile.  He pulled his phone from his pocket, checked the time, and strolled away.

“ We’ll _see_ who he dances with on Saturday night!”  That challenge was the last thing Eönwë heard before he pushed through a wide set of double doors into the company’s main lobby.

They’d all be disappointed, he knew from past experience.  Mairon danced once with Yavanna at every party and considered himself done.  Spent the rest of the night in the darkest corner he could find writing algorithms on napkins until Yavanna forced Aulë to give him permission to head home.  But this time, Eonwe had a different plan…one he’d been working on for nearly seven years and finally – finally! – felt confident enough to put into action.

With luck, and charm, this time they’d leave together.

 

The shadows were suspiciously still.  The tall, black-haired man lowered the violin from His chin and glanced around.

“ Food?”  He asked the empty flat.  Not a whisper or a rustle responded.  He drew His bow down the strings, making a noise that would cause wolves to howl if there were wolves around to hear it.

“ Food!”  Making the instrument scream again.  The ornamental clock on the mantle chimed twice.  He growled and flipped the violin onto the comfortable couch.  The bow followed.  It bounced and clattered to the floor.

Still nothing.  He turned and glared at a full length, gilt frame mirror that dominated one of the walls.  Not a ripple moved in the silvered glass.  Neither from between the walls or under the floorboards.

“ Where art?” He demanded.  “ Fucking little monsters.”  Nothing.  He strode purposefully toward the mirror, approaching His own reflection, and when He reached it – stepped _into_ the glass.  A burst of cold, shadowy smoke blew off the mirror.

He stepped out of another full-length mirror mounted on a closet door in the spare bedroom of the second story flat.  The chilling billow of shadow accompanying Him dispersed - fading at the wave of one hand.

Preternaturally silent, He stalked into the hallway.  Paused to listen.  After a moment, He perceived two noises – the faintest rustle of fine fabric and the rhythmic strokes of a soft bristle brush over….leather…yes…leather.  He followed the noise.  It led Him into the master bedroom situated directly beneath His own. 

He knew the layout intimately for it had been He who stripped these rooms to their joists.  His very own hands had carved these wooden panels, planed the floorboards, stained, and polished all before nailing them in place.

He found the bedroom door half closed and pushed it open.  Translucent shades and vaporous shadows writhed in every corner of the room.  They emitted silent joyous song.

A pale blue dress shirt danced seemingly of its own accord.  Uplifted forearm sections and cuffs flopped to and fro.  A soft, ultrasonic whisper wafted up from the empty starched collar.

It skipped around a sleeping pallet made of three blankets layered together and folded in half.  On the floor beside the pallet, a small goblin popped thin black lips – producing soft percussion.  He had a leather shoe in his lap and a buffing brush in one hand.

The song paused.  The shirt froze.  He with the brush inspected the shine on the leather.  Then both song and dance resumed.  Brush strokes enthusiastically contributed to the rhythm.

The big man stopped, contemplated the eerie scene, and gave a soft snort of amusement.

All sense of movement and vibration of song in the corners abruptly ceased.  The spirit sitting cross-legged on the floor jerked around.  Black eyes widened.  He stopped buffing the shoe in his lap and gave a high-pitched, whining _skree_. 

Several of the shadows in the corners abruptly vanished.  Others became quiet, small, and still upon the floor.  

The shirt stopped dancing. 

But the tall man chuckled.  He crossed the floor with a grace belied by his size and bulk.  Leaned down to look into the empty collar.

The goblin within bit thin black lips.  The shirt arms dropped.

“ Report.”

Chitter CLICK!

“ It pleases me to think so.  What supports thy conclusion?”

A stream of images swelled forth with series of chitters, chatters, and clicks.  None of the others had slept on the floor.  And she in the shirt, she’d been bold enough to slip up to him in rodent form.  Close enough to get a good sniff of hair, breath, and bare feet.

None of the others had smelled right – this one did.  And…

There came projected mental images of a figure moving around in the dim predawn; taking a three-piece suit from one of the several zippered bags that hung in the large closet.  The suit he’d worn yesterday hung free – its hanger looped around the bag that obviously belonged to it.

He’d folded this shirt just so and left it on the pallet he’d made last night out of three new blankets.  And the plastic bags in which those blankets had come - folded into precise squares and tucked one inside the other!  One flopping sleeve indicated the neat packet on the windowsill.

Reaching out, He lifted the shirt by its shoulders.  Brought it to His face and inhaled the faint odors clinging to the fabric.  Lifted it higher and sniffed first one armpit and then the other.

Sandalwood, sage, and the musk of mortal flesh – close but missing the coppery metallic undertones that were - after long Ages - forever ingrained in His memory.

“ Promising.”  He announced, handing the shirt back.  “ But still…I reserve judgment.”

He watched as she refolded the shirt and he finished the shoe.  “ Was there going to be an afternoon meal today?” With a fine hint of sarcasm.

She with the shirt chittered.

“ Completely empty?” A cheep.  “ Then let’s hit a drive-through.”

Two sets of black eyes lifted hopefully.  “ Fries, Master?” hissed the little polisher.

“  Yes.  We shall indulge now for if it is him…”  Both nodded.  Fast food, junk food, and sweets would be severely curtailed- which each knew, and accepted.  Even Himself - it was the price paid for Order and efficiency.  “Pie, or ice cream, eh?  Or both.”  Turning, He indicated an air duct.  “ Raid the coffer – I’ll wait in the car.”

 

Mairon stood in the doorway to Aulë’s inner sanctum.  He resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest.

“ You’ll have fun once you get there,”  assured Aulë with a warm smile, “ we all do.  Good food, good music, good company – you can’t miss the wrap party.  ‘Vanna will be disappointed if she can’t dance with you, lad!”

“ I’d like to finish moving in, sir.  I need to get furniture and linens.  Cookware, rugs, lamps – I did lose almost everything in the fire.”  Mairon tried to make the Old Man see reason.  Politely, pleasantly.  “ I can’t take tomorrow, Astaldo Aeronautics is due at eleven to review the transfer procedures,”

“ Just stay at Salvatore’s ‘til Monday.  You’ve been there nine months already.  Four more days aren’t going to kill you.”

Aloud, Mairon agreed that they wouldn’t.  He didn’t voice his conviction that _he_ , however, might kill Curumo before the weekend was over. 

After one night of blissful quiet and privacy, the thought of going back to Sal’s noise and disarray – intolerable didn’t begin to describe his feelings.  If he had to smell the previous night’s dead beer bottles one morning more, he’d ram one down Sal’s throat until it came out the other end.

“ Go shopping Saturday, set up your deliveries,” Aulë beamed as if he were solving all Mairon’s problems.  “ Come to the party Saturday night and have fun.”

Which had never been the case before, but Aulë enjoyed the parties so much he couldn’t conceive that Mairon did not.  And never would.

“ Sir,”

“ I won’t take no for an answer.”  Big, bluff, good-natured Aulë – he smiled as he dashed what little hope Mairon had for understanding, for empathy.

Mairon said nothing.  He kept his discontent from his face and gave a succinct nod.  He left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chaos will eventually end and then I'll get back to status quo.
> 
> Love to you all!! <3!!! from a <3~~


	11. Reprieve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please Note The Change in Tags. They are minor but they are important.
> 
> Like a true Introvert, Mairon will welcome anything that gets him out of a social situation. Even a family emergency. As we've begun to see, our protagonist's personal relationships are...complicated. The more personal, the more complicated. Now let us accompany Mairon back to his childhood home...
> 
> A small amount of Haradrim ('Bandi) vocab:
> 
> Aba: dad, daddy - from Ababba (father)  
> Umi: mom, mommy - from Umumi (mother)  
> Mymsa: a familiar but respectful title for an older, married woman - Mrs.
> 
> And with Many and Great Thanks to Morgause1 for the diminutive "Roni" (which I choose to pronounce " Ronnie" in my head.)

March 12, 2018

 

**_Reprieve_ **

 

Tulkas Astaldo was, in Mairon’s considered opinion, an idiot. 

Over the course of the afternoon, Tulkas had made three jokes about battery powered kitchen grabbers, twice addressed their newest metallurgist as “Pretty little girlie,” and slapped Sal on the back so hard that he’d nearly face-planted onto the cement floor. 

Mairon actually felt sympathy for his co-worker.  Curumo winced - outright flinched - every time the laughing giant got anywhere near him.

And to think, the day hadn’t started off too bad.  Though he’d spent last night on Sal’s torturous futon, this morning he’d woken to smell not one stinking, dead beer bottle.  A delightful lack of empty packages littering the kitchen counters.

He stood with his arms folded over his chest, watching the team from Astaldo Aeronautics snap pictures and document final measurements.  Their boss said it would take about a week to fabricate the storage units as he bumbled around them like a giant, happy puppy.

Mairon had heard through the gossip lines that Tulkas Astaldo was married to a famous dancer.  A prima ballerina, of all things.  He couldn’t conceive it.

Things were just concluding when the phone in his breast pocket suddenly spoke. 

His own voice, in ‘Bandi: “ Little brat, little brat, little brat,”

He reached for the phone with a frown, saying to his team, “ I have to take this.”

Turning away, he swiped the screen, “ Khadi, what’s wrong?” he asked immediately in the same language.  Exiting the lab, he moved toward the nearest external door.

“ I’m sorry for calling you at work but,” his foster sister said, “ Aba’s in hospital,”

“ How badly is he hurt?  What happened?  Umi?” He stepped out into the late afternoon sunshine.

“ The car’s totaled.  The airbag went.  Aba’s got a broken collarbone…or maybe it’s fractured, they’re not sure.  They’re checking him over.  Doing tests.  Umi’s with him, she told me to call you.”

“ Of course she did.  Was she in the car?”

“ No, she was home.  Mymsa Dajeen drove her over.  I was at work; they just filled my shift.  I’m going over now.  But, Roni, before I could call you Zaekir called me – his girlfriend saw it.  She says the car behind hit Aba on purpose then drove away.  It wasn’t an accident.  What’s going on?  Did Umi say anything last Sunday when you talked?”

“ Just that they had an offer for the house.  They refused it, of course – they’re old now.  They don’t want to move at this time in their lives.  She didn’t tell you?”

“ No!  She didn’t say anything!”

“ Well, why would she?  They said no.”  Mairon reasoned.  He stood, frowning to himself, in the parking lot.  Ran a hand over his hair in a reflexive gesture.  “ Which hospital?  How are you getting there?”

“ Lady of Rohan over by the river.  Mymsa Dajeen.  Umi asked her to pick me up and take me over.”

“ Good.  Do you have any cash you can give Mymsa D. for gas?  I’ll pay you back when I get there…”

“ You’re coming?”  She sounded immensely relieved.

“ I have to finish up here, then I have to talk to the Old Man, grab a bag…I estimate I can be on the road in an hour…hour and a half max.  But by the time I get there, visiting hours will be over.  They’ll make you leave.  Do you still have the card I gave you?”

“ The credit card, yes, somewhere, wait,” His younger sister muttered to herself, he heard the sound of a zipper, and paper rustling, then, “ I’ve got it…in the back of my wallet…I haven’t used it!”

“ I know.”  He received a statement once a month, “Use it now.  In hospital, if they demand proof of ability to pay.  Get Aba whatever he needs, get dinner for you and Umi, take a taxi home. 

And, Khadi, call me after you talk to the doctors.  If I don’t answer, leave a voicemail – tell me  _everything_  they tell you.  I’ll call when I’m on my way.  Oh, call Zaekir back.  Let him know I’m coming.  Tell him I said thank you and we’ll meet up…probably Saturday night after Temple.”

“ What’s the limit on this card?”  She demanded, realization dawning in her voice.

“ There’s no limit.”

“ Roni!”

“ They may not accept Aba’s insurance.”

“ Umi won’t like it!”

“ Then don’t tell her.  Say it’s your card.  Better yet, for once in your life, be discreet.  Don’t use it in front of her.”

In Westron, “ Don’t be a dick, big brother.”

“ Stop giving me shit: do what I tell you.”  He retorted.  “ Now let me go.  I’ve got a lot to do and I want to be on the motorway before the weekend traffic starts.”

“ Okay, okay.”

“ _Don’t_  forget to call me,”

“ I  _won’t,_ ”

 

Fifteen minutes later he stood in Aulë's inner sanctum, explaining, “ My father’s in hospital.  Someone hit his car and ran.  My mother and sister need me,”

“ Is Darib all right?” Aulë pushed back his chair and rose.  Always one to face problems on his feet.

 “ I don’t know, sir.  They’re running tests.”

“ Poor Faroula!”  Aulë came around his wide desk to lay a hand on Mairon’s shoulder, “ Please, give them my love – and ask if there’s anything I can do for them!”

 “ Thank you, sir.  I will.  They’re not young anymore.  They don’t need this stress.  After everything they’ve done for me…”

“ Of course, of course!”  Aulë patted him twice, “ You go.  Don’t worry about us.  We’ll miss you, but Sal can represent your team well enough Saturday night.”

Mairon nodded.  Simultaneously doubting that Curumo could make the obligatory speech and experiencing deep relief that he’d be spared the wrap party. 

He thanked Aulë, said he’d call once he understood the situation, and left.

While he was loading several files into his briefcase and securing his office, Curumo himself appeared in the doorway.

“ I hope your old man’s all right,” awkwardly.

Mairon looked up from locking the drawers of his desk.  Gossip spread like wildfire in this damn place, he thought in annoyance.

“ I’m expecting a call with more information.  I told Aulë I’d keep him updated, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”  With an edge of sarcasm so fine, Curumo missed it.  His personal business was fucking nobody else’s.

“ I don’t suppose you…wrote your speech?”

Mairon blinked in disbelief.  Stood a moment with anger building, unable to believe this was Sal’s main reason for seeking him out, delaying him.

“ I never write the speech.” Biting at the last word.  “ I just give it.”  Then he thought that Sal could be of some actual use, “ I left a bottle of wine in your guest room – on the desk – take that with you.  It’s for Varda Elentári.”

He watched comprehension bloom over Curumo’s face.  Realized that the idiot hadn’t thought he should bring something for the hostess.  Mairon doubted that his bottle of wine would be attributed to him.  

Fuck it.  Fuck it all.

“ I’ve got to get going.  I have a six-hour drive and it’s coming up on rush hour.  I still have to pack a bag.”

Mairon slung his briefcase around, using it to force Sal back into the hallway.  He locked his office door, pocketed the keys, and left without a backward look.

 

It was after ten thirty when he arrived in the tightly packed sector of Old Minrith City that the Westerners scathingly referred to as “ Lil Umba”.  A warren of tall, narrow houses separated by short, narrow streets.  

As he came off the motorway, he saw that demolition and reconstruction had torn down part of the town east of where he’d grown up.  Mairon negotiated the familiar route into the maze almost mindlessly.

He’d been placed in this little, narrow house with Darib and Faroula Tesazdi at the approximate age of five - after being rejected by at least four other foster homes.

The porch lights were on, welcoming him back.   

He took his suit bag, laptop, and overnight case from the back seat.  Locked the car.  Standing in the driveway,  he considered how much smaller the house seemed to an adult eye.  As he was doing this, the door opened.  Khadi, in slippers and bathrobe, gave him an impatient look, “ Standing there all night or coming in?  We saved your dinner.”

Even now, with her face scrubbed clean, she was a beauty: almond brown eyes, long sable colored hair braided sloppily over one shoulder, and a lush figure that made men of any age stare.  He topped her by head and shoulders.

On his way through the door, he paused, stooped, and kissed her forehead.  She patted his chest.  Khadi muttered that she’d put fresh sheets on his bed.

He’d been seven when they’d placed three-year-old Khadi in the house, and nine by the time her adoption procedures concluded.  He’d resented her fiercely for that adoptability.  And he'd been jealous as hell, until the first time she came home from school crying. 

The resulting “incident” had been Hushed Up very quickly.  It’d been all too easy to make everyone believe it’d just…gotten out of hand.  But no one had teased or bullied his younger sister ever again.

“ Where’s Umi?”

“ Shower.  Said she needed to wash off the hospital smell.”

“ I need the WiFi password,”  he set his laptop case on the living room table.

Khadi snorted at him.  She pointed down the dark hall, obviously indicating his room.  He went to hang up his suit and drop off his bag.

Ten minutes later, they sat at the kitchen table with mugs of mint tea and open containers of Take-Away heated up in the microwave.  She snagged a stuffed grape leaf and he chased her hand across the table with his fork.

“ Get your own dolmas,” snippily as he went back to his fattoush.   She snagged a piece of toasted pita out of his salad.  “ Little brat,”

“ Khadi, stop teasing your brother.”  Faroula’s face looked even more hawk-like.  And with her dark hair wet, the streaks of grey at her temples really stood out. “ Rhonee,”   He’d always love the way she rolled that r.

“ Umi.” He got up to hug her.  His foster mother took his chin in her fingers and pulled him down to kiss his cheek.

“ Sit.  Eat.”  She’d lost weight since the last time he’d seen her: a spare figure in an old bathrobe - comfortable but not shabby.  In her seventies now, she was still a force with which to reckon.

She poured herself a cup of mint tea from the ceramic pot on the counter before joining them at the table.

“ How are you?”  He asked quietly.

“ Eh.”  She shrugged.  “ How was the drive?”

“ Friday night traffic.”  Nothing more need be said. 

He added, very casually, “ I thought I’d need a map to find the house.  So much new construction.  I noticed a Sold sign on the Najjar's, and the Bishara’s.  The Old Bazaar marketplace gone, too.  Is that the company who made you and Aba an offer on this place?”

“ Hmm,” Faroula nodded.  “ Hendon’s, Hamlin’s, something like that.  The same Developers who made us an offer just before you moved up North.”  She gestured to one of the drawers under the kitchen counters.  “Your father kept his card.”

 “ How was Aba when you left him?”

“ Asleep.  They gave him painkillers.  He is a fortunate old fool, your father.  They think he can come home Sunday.  Tough as a camel, thank the Rising Lord, for a man near eighty.  They want to make sure he’s not concussed.

“ Khadi told me he’s got a fractured collarbone...”

Faroula nodded, “ He must have braced himself against the steering wheel before the bag popped.  He has a broken nose and two black eyes,”  with a sardonic smile, “ looks like he lost a street brawl.”

Which was very funny.  Both his parents were highly educated people.  Darib had trained as an engineer.  Faroula had a degree in Eastern Literature and Poetry.  Unfortunately, they’d immigrated in the massive wave from the last conflict. 

 _War_ , Mairon had studied his history, yet another war over oil.  But the Westerners wouldn’t shame themselves by calling it that.

With the collapse of the local government in the Near Harad province from which they’d fled and an overburdened local job market, neither of his parents had arrived with the documentation necessary to work in their fields. 

Darib had become a construction worker.  Faroula had started in her brother-in-law’s falafel shop before achieving a position as an admin secretary in the nearby community college.

Faroula stole one of his stuffed grape leaves.

“ I thought you both ate,” he scowled, teasing very seriously.

“ That was hours ago,” Khadi grabbed another herself.

“ Not as good as mine.”  His foster mother announced as she looked at the rice and ground meat in her half-eaten dolma.  “ Not even lamb.”  But she finished it. 

Dark eyes studied him for a moment.  She reached out and wiped her thumb over his cheek.  “ Get some rest.  Tomorrow we’ll visit Aba, have lunch with your aunt and uncle, and then you’ll be expected at Temple.  Your sister mentioned to Haddah Dajeen that you were coming.”  Faroula gave the girl a sour look.

 “ She asked.  What was I supposed to say?”  Khadi rolled her eyes at Mairon.

“ Oh, I owe you money,” to his sister.  He pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred just under the table edge.  After folding it so the amount wasn’t visible, he passed Khadi the note.  “ How’s Mymsa D.?”

“ Too old to be driving,” Khadi shuddered, “ three times, I thought I was going to die.”  She tucked the money into her bathrobe pocket.

“ Go to bed.” Faroula finished her tea.  She packed up the uneaten food and put it in the fridge. “ Visiting hours start at eight.  We won’t leave Aba waiting, hm?”

Once he heard the bedroom door close, “ Did you call Zaekir?  How much family emergency leave do you get?  I’ll pay you to stay home and take care of Aba.  The WiFi password?”

Khadi grumbled as she rose, opened a drawer, and dug for a little slip of paper.  She threw it down on the table in front of him.

“ Umi won’t like it.”

“ Umi is seventy-six.  What do you do for a living, brat?”

“ I’m a nurse,” she grumbled.  “ And yes, I called Zaekir.  He said you know where to find him – if you want to see him tonight.  If not, tomorrow after Temple, but he said he  _has_  to talk to you.  How much will you pay me?”

“ More than your damned doctor’s office.”  Mairon looked at the slip of paper with the WiFi password and committed the long string of symbols, letters, and numbers to memory.  He didn’t need to stand up to put it back in the drawer.  Taking a moment, he flicked through various bits of paper until he found the business card Faroula had mentioned. 

Hanson Real Estate and Urban Developers – Mairon remembered that name very well.  He thought he’d dealt with that situation.  Put it to bed long ago.  He slipped the card back into the pile.

He said to Khadi,“ Grab my laptop.”

“ Get it yourself,” she scowled and “ if you stay up, or out, half the night…”

“ Get my laptop, brat, and let me take care of business.  Their insurance isn’t going to afford a new car worth having.  You want a piece of shit in your doctor’s parking lot or you want something nice?”

She retrieved his laptop from the living room table.  Setting it down before him with exaggerated care, she muttered, “ Fuck you,” before she stalked off to bed.

Mairon turned on the computer, plugged in the WiFi password, and left it to go to sleep.  He got up, grabbed his coat off the back of his chair, and slipped out the kitchen door.

Moving surely across the small yard that his parents shared with Faroula’s sister’s family, he made his way to an old shed in the far corner.

Dim light, soft music, and the dank smell of kief – he entered without knocking.

Four young men, relaxed in lawn chairs, looked up.

“ Zig!” Exclaimed one.  Short dark hair, dark beard, dark eyes, he rose to offer Mairon both hands.

“ Zaekir,” Mairon leaned down so he could exchange the traditional greeting of touching both his cheeks to his cousin’s.

“ Zigur,” coughed out one of the other young men, losing his hit.  The bong in his hands sloshed.  “ Shit, no one told me you were coming!  How’s your Aba?”

“ He’s out on Sunday.  Only a little broken.  Give me that bong.”  Reaching out as he sank down on a wooden crate.

“ Don’t they make you piss in a cup, that fancy Western company?” Asked another of the gathered company.

“ I haven’t pissed in a cup for over ten years.” He assessed the bong.  “ When was the last time this water was changed?  Is this stuff any good?  It smells like dog shit.”

They all agreed that it was damn fine kief.  Zaekir handed him fire.  Mairon looked at them over the top of the mouthpiece. “ So, tell me what’s going on,” before he lit the bowl and, with a gurgle of water, filled the chamber. 

Over the next hour, they caught him up on everything from petty local gossip to who had sold out to the Western developer and moved away.

“ Like father like son.”  Mairon had only taken the one hit, but it was more than enough to relax him.  “ You’d think that little bastard would have learned better, after what happened to his old man.”

One of the young men tsk’d.  They all grinned – darkly.

“ Wouldn’t it be a shame if history repeated itself.” Zaekir slapped Mairon’s knee.

“ Sometimes, karma’s a bitch.”  Mairon responded with a short laugh.  He took his second hit off the bong, “ Tomorrow night.  Umi will be in bed by 10…meet here then?”

They agreed.  He returned to the house, checked his email, and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seems someone has Mairon's number...but then Khadi did grow up with him. But...what IS our anti-protagonist plotting?
> 
> Most sincere apologies to all you good and gentle readers! I regret letting you hang for over a month! The Family time was hectic. And the sister I thought was visiting for one week...well, it turned out to be two. She developed a pretty serious head cold and fever right after she arrived, unfortunately. So, I had a pretty good cold after she left. :( And as I recovered, one of my periods of anxiety and depression hit kinda hard.
> 
> I have comments I have shamefully neglected, and I beg each and every commenter's pardon - I will respond to them over the next couple of days as I can work up the energy to socially engage. To those sweet Nonnies who've dropped messages in my Tumblr mailbox - I can't tell you how much those little messages mean! Thank you so much, you make me cry. But in the good way. And like the comments here on AO3 - I will get to them once I'm more myself. But through the deep-dark blues and from under my rock - I send love to you all. This too will pass, friends, just bear with me until it does.


	12. A Night Out with the Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> so·ci·o·path
> 
> /ˈsōsēōˌpaTH/  
> noun  
> noun: sociopath; plural noun: sociopaths
> 
> a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior and a lack of conscience
> 
> (Klaxon noises - Heavy politics warning.)

**_A Night Out with the Boys_ **

 

“ What have we ever asked, but fair treatment and equal representation?”

The crowd seated on cushions and rugs nodded, frowned, muttered.

Mairon donned his most compassionate smile.  He stood on the raised dais at the northern end of the Temple: addressing an assembly of about three hundred.

“ Our parents and grandparents were forced to flee their homes – it’s not like they had a _choice_.”  Tucking his arms thoughtfully behind his back, he tipped his head toward the congregation.  Creating a false sense of conversational intimacy.

“ When foreign governments pump vast amounts of money, troops, and weapons into your homeland to ensure that they control a finite resource, what else can one do?  Stick around - become a casualty?  Or do you take your children someplace safe?  Someplace they can have a better life.  Peace.  Security.  _A future_.”

Heads nodded.  Aged, wizened men leaned toward one another.  Made little gestures of agreement.  Young men stared at him with fire lighting their dark eyes.  At the back, worried women stared at their children.

Off to Mairon’s left, the priest who had approached him before the service, and pressed him to speak this evening, nodded along with his congregation.  Old Naibin Rekkour had seen three wars and three waves of immigrants surge from the Harad sands in his lifetime.

“ They drive us from our ancestral lands, steal our rightful inheritance, and then scorn us when we end up on their shores.  In their streets.  Their schools. 

They refuse educated people, like my parents, their credentials – forcing them to menial positions.  To rely on grudging charity when meager wages, hard-won by sweat and tears, can’t provide a _decent_ living.

Underfunded schools systems _ensure_ that this cycle of poverty and dependence continues…that we remain eternal second-class citizens.  Never able to take advantage of profits and privileges that are ours by right!”  His voice rose, punching it home.  Cool calculation drove each passionate lilt, each penetrating glance of amber-brown eyes, as he met the gaze of individuals in the crowd.

“ And now…and _now_ …they say we must not march, must not protest, these injustices.  That we should lie down and _gratefully accept our lot_. 

I’m told that three - not _one_ but _three_ \- separate groups have been denied permits to organize peaceful rallies.  Because organized protest could impede “progress”… might block traffic…would be _inconvenient_ to Western businesses.  How _dare_ we?!”

An angry murmur washed through the crowd.  Indignation surged into hot, righteous anger.

“ And they threaten us with arrest, imprisonment – **deportation -** if we continue to embarrass them.  If we have the temerity to remind them that _they_ caused this damned mess!  For profit.  For power.  _Their_ profit and _their_ power!”

A soft roar went through the congregation.

“ Now it falls to my generation– because we **cannot** be deported!  We were born **here**.  Raised **here**.  On dreams of Gondian prosperity, of equality – they can’t ship us back to our homeland because **this** is our homeland.

It’s our responsibility to ensure that our parents and grandparents gain representation.  The Voice that they’ve been denied for a hundred years.  That our children, and their children, have access to proper education, to the newest medical advances, to equal justice!”

The roar grew louder.

“ They can’t stop peaceful, lawful protests if regional administrators are continually petitioned -   _without surcease_.  Not a single day must pass without our elected representatives seeing Haradi names, and the Haradi Cause spread over their desks.  Filling their voicemails.  Their email inboxes.  Pamphlets on car windscreens.  Flyers on every light pole.

 ** _We will make them hear us!_** "

The congregation erupted in a fierce outcry.  Ululations echoed amid shouted agreements and affirmations.  Mairon lowered his shoulders in a semblance of humble affectation.  Bowed his head to them even as his eyes skimmed the crowd to make sure he had each and every one of them at a fever pitch.

Back with the women, Khadi gave him a cynical twist of her generous mouth.  His gaze swept over her without acknowledging that knowing expression.

He unfolded his arms from behind his back and lifted both hands to them, palms downward.  They quieted at his gesture.

“ Thank you all.  It’s good to be _home_.”

And, just as he anticipated – planned – they erupted again.  Now with thunderous applause.  They took a rhythm as he bowed to them, bowed to the old priest Naibin Rekkour, and descended the dais steps back into their midst.

 

An hour later, he sat at the kitchen table with Faroula and Khadi.  The remains of a light meal spread before them.  Mairon picked at stuffed olives and cherry tomatoes while he finished his second cup of tea.

“ That was good.” Faroula smiled and reached out to touch his face with her fingertips. 

Khadi had been quiet all evening – made herself absent while he prepared dinner.  Now she agreed with their mother and said that she’d clean up.

“ I heard you moving around,” she studied him with thoughtful brown eyes, “ at four or five this morning.  You must be tired.”

“ A little.” He agreed.  “ Maybe I’ll turn in early tonight.  My body thinks I still have to go to work.  I usually get up before dawn.  I hope I didn’t wake you?”

“ No, I needed to…my bladder woke me up.  I went right back to sleep.”

He gave her a smile, “ Good.  I tried to be quiet.  I was looking at cars online,” he turned to their mother, “ trying to find something reasonable.  The local prices are outrageous.  For that kind of money, we could get something new up my way.”

“ But then we’d pay to have it brought down,” Faroula shook her head.  “ That would be a foolish waste of money.”

“ You could come with me on Tuesday and drive it back.”  He suggested.  Gestured at Khadi, “ She can take of Aba for a day, or two.  When your insurance comes through, you can pay me.  Or not.  I can cover it.”

“ You work hard for your money,” Faroula protested.

Mairon cut her off - gently.  “ I’ve told you before, Umi, I’ve invested very well.  Since my car is paid for, I don’t have any big bills.  Other than suits for work.  I just keep building my portfolio.  Let me cover a new car.  Then Khadi won’t have to scramble for rides to work.  Aba will feel better knowing you don’t have to depend on other people.  So will you.  Think about it?”

Khadi, wisely, said nothing as she cleaned the table.

Faroula grumbled a bit, but he knew the pattern.  Invoking Khadi’s safety and Aba’s proud independence…she’d acquiesce after a little posturing.

“ I haven’t had the chance to tell you,” he changed the subject.  “ I took the new flat.  It’s a longer commute, but the village is very nice – very quiet.  And the flat is superb.  Whoever rents upstairs seems to be a concert pianist.  They play beautifully!”  Deciding not to mention his downstairs neighbor at all. 

His mother had a tendency toward romanticism – believing in spirits and supernatural influences.  He attributed it to her inundation in old poetry and literature.  An occupational hazard, as it were.

“ How much is it?”

“ Very reasonable.  I hope you’ll come back with me.  Then you can see it.  Maybe you can advise me on curtains and carpets…that would be a tremendous help.”  Adding another lure to the ones he’d already set.

“ We’ll see how your father feels when he gets home.”  She demurred.  But he knew he _had_ her.  And, despite the fact it was barely seven pm, he went to bed when she urged him to.

Before lying down, he plugged the phone into its charger and himself into the phone with his earbuds.  Set an alarm for quarter to ten.

He slept hard until the beeping in his ears roused him. 

Instantly awake, he sat up and eased off the bed.  Scraped his hair back into a tight braid by the dim light of his phone.  Silently dressed in the dark clothes he’d dug from a box buried at the very back of his closet.  They had sharp creases from being folded so long and smelled faintly of the fabric softener sheet he’d tucked in the box when he’d packed it.

He cracked open the door and listened to the house.  Khadi was watching TV in the living room at the end of the long, dark hall.  Above him, Faroula’s bathroom fan sung its familiar evening tune as she readied herself for bed.  Right on schedule.

Barefoot, Mairon slipped into the hallway and gentled the door shut behind him.  He made his noiseless way into the kitchen and out the back door.  Sitting down on the porch steps, he donned a pair of worn running shoes.  Making sure to keep in the dark– avoiding any light from the house windows – he approached the shed.

Zaekir and the others were waiting.  Dressed much as he was.  The bong sat untouched in its corner.  Tonight was not about music or conversation.

“ Tell us what you learned.” Auwa and Zaekir spoke as one. 

Mairon sat on the wooden crate.  Everyone leaned forward in a tight circle.

He passed on everything he’d learned at four this morning when he’d hacked the Department of Motor Vehicles, the local police station, two construction companies, a security firm, the computers at Hanson Real Estate, and the personal computer and phone of one Jeremy Hanson.

He took his own phone from his pocket and sent out a ping.  It located Hanson’s and sent him back a precise location.

“ He’s at a nightclub,”  Mairon noted, “ uptown.  Spending money on women, alcohol, and drugs.  Ready?”  They nodded. “ Let’s go.”

Out into the darkness.  Two sets who went two separate directions. 

Mairon and Zaekir took the long way around.  They approached the parked car several minutes after the others. Auwa wanted Mairon to drive, but he folded himself into the passenger seat.  Pulling up the bag that waited on the floor, he checked its contents. 

“ You have everything?”  For they’d been texting back and forth all day in the coded language they’d devised many years ago. 

Mairon passed out black balaclava facemasks to the three in the back seat and kept one for himself.  Then gloves.  He handed the heavy-duty, commercial strength roll of cling-wrap to Zaekir.  There was also an adhesive lint roller.  He let it rest in his lap as he folded the bag into a small, neat square and tucked it into Auwa’s glove box.

He used the lint roller on his shirt and trousers, making sure to get his shoulders back and front – in case any hair clung to him.  As he turned to hand it into the back seat, he did a double take.  Frowned thunderously.

“ Take that off, you _idiot_.”  He snapped at Ramul, who hurriedly jerked the balaclava off his head.  “ We should dump _you_ in the river.”  Mairon pronounced coldly as he faced forward again.

“ Sorry, Zig.”

“ Fucking moron.”  Mairon lifted his chin, indicating that Auwa should get going.

Movies and TV made these things seem so exciting, so dramatic.  In reality, there was a great deal of planning and a great deal of waiting, and a need for almost infinite patience.

The successful hunter stalked his prey with preparation and deliberate method.

“ What do we do if he goes home with a whore?”  Asked Ramul – always fretful from an adrenalin rush he could never adequately control.

Mairon had no such problem.  “ We wait.”

As they drove out of Little Umba and into Minrith city center, they ran over contingencies.  By the time they parked just down the street from the nightclub entrance, they’d discussed every possible variation.  Every factor that could shift in an instant.  Two things happened: the anxiety level in the car dropped and confidence lifted – stabilized.

Mairon passed around his phone.  Let them study the pictures he’d downloaded this morning during his hack job: Hanson’s face from the selfies he had on his phone.  His car model and license plate from the security camera at one of his construction sites. 

Mairon spent several minutes generating maps of possible routes Hanson might take from the nightclub to their intended pick-off point.

Now it was just a waiting game.

There was very little conversation – too much of a distraction.  But Auwa played instrumental music as they waited.  Parked in a dark zone between streetlamps, Auwa pretended to talk on his phone.  Mairon periodically used his own to check Hanson’s location. 

He’d coded a new app.  One that made his phone constantly rotate artificial VPN numbers and bounce its signal randomly off towers as far away as it could reach.

Shortly after one, Hanson came out.  Alone. 

They waited until his vehicle emerged from the club’s parking lot and pulled onto the main road with two cars between them and their target.

After they’d gone three blocks, Mairon had his phone simulate an unauthorized activity warning from the security system at one of Hanson’s construction sites.  The one just on the edge of Little Umba.

As Hanson put on his blinker and shifted lanes, Mairon nodded to himself.

“ He’s headed east.  He took the bait.  Auwa,”

“ I know, Zig!”  They passed Hanson’s car as he turned at the light.  Taking a secondary route - a shortcut through back roads with no lights to slow them - Auwa negotiated dark, quiet streets.

About half a mile from the site, they pulled back into the main road.  There was absolutely no traffic coming or going in this industrial area so late on a Saturday night.  It was too far away from anything. 

In fact, most of the buildings were completely empty.

 Mairon could see the traffic signal at the end of the straightaway.  They’d trigger the red light when they reached it.

“ Slow down, Auwa, I don’t see him yet.”  Sharp eyes scanned the road perpendicular to their own.  Just as he said it, headlights came into view.  “ Ah, there he is.  Keep this speed…”  Mairon instructed after a glance over at the dashboard.  He pulled on his balaclava and the three men in the back seat did the same.

Their car triggered the light.  Hanson, driving over the limit, braked hard.  As he did, Auwa stopped dead in the center of the intersection.

Four figures popped out of the car at a dead run.

Mairon pointed his phone at the vehicle as he ran.  It emitted two electronic signals.  One unlocked all the doors of this particular BMW model. 

Nabien wrenched open the passenger door and threw himself inside - jerking the transmission into park.

The second signal temporarily shut down the car’s emergency system.  Mairon had designed it this morning while Khadi and Faroula slept.  

He wrenched open first the driver’s side front door, then the rear door behind it.  As he slid by the door edge, he dropped his phone into his cousin’s breast pocket when Zaekir came up beside him.  Zaekir lunged into the car.

It was fast.  Decisive.  Mairon felt great satisfaction at the smooth efficiency with which they executed the maneuver.  As if they’d done this just yesterday, not over a decade ago.

“ What the fuck, what the fuck!”  Jeremy Hanson sounded a great deal like his father had years earlier.  He hit the panic button on his phone in its dashboard stand.  Nothing happened.

 Mairon smirked under his facemask.

Zaekir came up with a length of plastic wrap and jammed it over Hanson’s face – driving him back against the headrest.  He slipped his knee into the car, using Hanson’s own seat belt to pin him in place.

Mairon folded himself into the back of the car.  He reached out to take both sides of the wrap, relieving his cousin of it so Zaekir could use his body to pin Hanson’s arms. 

Then they waited for the Westerner to lose consciousness.

Hanson struggled for all he was worth: trying to jerk his head left, then right.  Fighting to dislodge the clear film.  He half bellowed once before he lost the breath to make another noise. 

His whole body lifted, writhing and jerking, with his efforts but the safety belt, and the weight of Zaekir’s body secured him in his bucket seat.

 After about a minute of immense resistance, he went limp.

Mairon kept the plastic in place.  Just to be sure Hanson wasn’t being clever.  Then he let it slacken. 

When Zaekir pulled the plastic away a little, Hanson’s head lolled unsteadily on the headrest.  After a long second, he drew a wet, shuddering breath – slobbering on the heavy-duty wrap.

“ We haven’t much time – hurry!”  Mairon commanded. 

Zaekir let the front seat go all the way back then moved out so Ramul could slip in on top of Hanson’s body.  He was the smallest of all of them – a short, slight man whose head looked a little too big for the birdlike body beneath.

Mairon growled as the seat squashed his knees and long legs.  But the extreme discomfort had its purpose – it must be tolerated.

“ Shit, he stinks of booze!” Ramul complained.

“ Good,”  Mairon responded.  He kept both ends of the plastic in his hands.  Damn, even in a Beamer it was a tight fit.  Knees wide, he ignored the pain. 

Nabien took the passenger seat and Zaekir returned to where Auwa waited.

It was a short drive from here to the river.  Mairon tightened the kitchen wrap once when it seemed Hanson might return to full consciousness.  

The car bumped and rumbled as Ramul jumped the curb.  He eased BMW to a halt nose down toward the river on a grassy embankment.

The deepest part of the Anduin ran below them as it snaked along the old city borders.  Though they couldn’t see down the steep bank in the darkness, they could hear icy whitewater frothing far below.  A dull, muttering roar.

Mairon had chosen this spot for the turn in the road, a safety barrier under construction, and the hill’s steep incline.  The water at this particular stretch of bight flowed fast and hard.  A perfect confluence of variables.

Ironically, it was only about a mile from where they’d dumped Old Hanson some thirteen years before.

Ramul was literally standing on the brake with his body lifted off Hanson’s below him.

“ Steady now,” Mairon murmured, “ stay loose.”

“ I’m loose,” came the response.  Ramul, however, sounded as if he, not Hanson, were half strangled.

“ How’s his breathing?”  Mairon asked as he opened the rear door and unfolded his long length from the back seat.  He gave it a quick brush with his gloved hand – just to be sure.  Checked the floor, too, just in case.

Ramul settled back on the Westerner’s chest.  “ Shallow.  Getting stronger.”

 “ Close the windows.”  He ordered as Nabien emerged from the front passenger seat.  

“ I remember,” Ramul grumbled, “ from the last time we did this.  It’s not something you forget.”

Mairon opened the driver’s side door and hit the automatic locks. “ Arch up again,” he told Ramul.  Mairon jerked hard on the seatbelt to set it to safety constrict mode.  He tugged the plastic off Hanson’s face.

Nabien rounded behind the car.  He held out a hand to relieve Mairon of the heavy-duty wrap.  Ducked under him to secure it with the driver’s side windshield wiper before backing off a step.

“ On three,” Mairon slipped an arm over Hanson’s legs and under Ramul’s knees.  Nabein reached into the car and hooked his arms around Ramul under the shoulders.

“ Don’t lose me,” Ramul gasped on a note of suppressed panic.

“ Relax, breathe,” Mairon whispered, looking into his face.  “ Trust us, brother, and breathe…relax…breathe…”

Ramul shuddered and tried to steady his ragged breathing.  He hooked one arm around Nabien’s neck and braced his gloved hand on the steering wheel for leverage.

“ Breathe,” so softly, “ breathe.  And on three…one, breathe, two, breathe,”

“ Three,” Nabien and Mairon whispered in unison.  Hauling on the slender man, they slid him out of the car.  Nabien, scooting backward and out, pulled Ramul with him.  Mairon let his arm drop and felt Ramul’s heels bump over his open elbow.  He pushed the driver’s side door firmly shut.

Once the brake released, the BMW began to roll.

Heading down the incline, it picked up speed.  After fifty feet, it had enough momentum to ensure a clear drop.  At seventy-five feet, it went over.  Several long seconds later, they heard it splash into the dark water far below.

“ Say hello to your Aba,” Ramul laughed – a high and nervous sound – as he lay on the grass.  Nabien, half under him, maintained a wise silence.

Mairon, too, lay on the grass.  He stared up at the night sky.  Clouds dimmed the face of the moon and obscured most of the stars. 

“ Shut up, Ramul,” he ordered, soft and cool. 

Mairon stripped off his balaclava.  Rolled it tight.  He briefly considered tossing Ramul after the car – ridding them of their weakest link.  Someday those pathetic nerves would betray them, one way or another.  It would be best to take Ramul out of the equation now…but Nabien would surely protest. 

Mairon shook his braid and smoothed his hair.  Rolling onto his feet, “ Let’s go.”

The other two followed in silence now.  Despite that fact that there was no traffic, they kept their position halfway down the slope – out of sight from the road.  Once around the bend, they headed upward to a small copse of trees.  Four or five trunks only, but they had canopy enough to provide a dark, safe place to wait.

As they crouched, a single car zipped by.  Though they froze, its headlights didn’t even touch the little cluster of trees.  The next car came slowly up the road.  It drew to a halt on the verge.

Mairon waited until the clouds above obscured the silvered moonlight.  He scanned the road up and down, hunting for any sign – or sense – of movement.  Assuring himself it was clear, “ Go.”

All three of them slipped into Auwa’s back seat as smoothly and quickly as possible.  Though they put Ramul in the middle, on the hump, Mairon found his knees jammed against the back of the front passenger seat.

He muttered under his breath, “ Well, this is fucking uncomfortable.”

“ I need some kief,” Auwa said as he put the car in drive and pulled back onto the road.  “ Let’s go smoke, eh?”

“ YOU need some kief?” Nabien bitched, “ _I_ need some fucking kief!”

“ Masks and gloves.”  Mairon reminded them.

In the front, Zaekir got the neatly folded plastic bag out of the glove box.  He tossed his own gloves and mask into it before passing it back.  Mairon shifted around so he could tug his balaclava out of his front pants pocket.  He tossed it, and his gloves, in the bag before handing it to Ramul.

“ You **better** have everything...” Mairon muttered, remembering the last time.

“ I do, I do,” Ramul sounded aggrieved.  He tossed them into the bag.

“ Can we go for shawarma?  I’m hungry.” Nabien asked as he threw in his own.

“ Where the fuck are we supposed to get shawarma at two-thirty in the morning?”  Zaekir demanded from the front seat.

At the same time, Ramul protested, “ Rising Lord, I’ll puke!”

“ Reeki’s is open ‘til three…” Auwa mused, “ It _is_ Saturday night.”

Mairon was made sharply aware of his own stomach.  “ Do they use lamb or pork?”

“ Really, Zig, we can go for shawarma?” Nabien leaned around Ramul to give Mairon a surprised, but hopeful look.

“ You can order Take-Away.  I’m home in bed.  You’ve all been in the shed smoking since ten – you’ve got the munchies.”  It wasn’t unreasonable.

“ I will puke all over _you_!” Ramul threatened Nabien as he protested again.

“ Then Zig can eat yours.” Nabien reasoned.  “ Zaekir, call Reeki’s – order before they close.”

“ If they don’t have lamb, I want chicken.  And a pomegranate juice.”  Mairon said.  “ Get Ramul a ginger-ale to settle his stomach.”

Zaekir shifted around in the front seat.  He said, “ Your phone.  I turned it off.” He passed the device back to Mairon.  “ You want extra tahini on the side?”

“ Always.”  Mairon took his phone.  He left it off and tucked it into his breast pocket.  There was a little more talk settling their order before Zaekir made the call.  By now they were back in Lil Umba on roads each of them knew by heart.

“ Drop me off first,” Mairon ordered, “ I’ll load up the bong.  And stretch my legs…damn, it’s cramped back here!”  And, from the feeling below his gut, empty his bladder.  “ I have to find a bush to water.  Auwa, you have any weed?  You all should stink when you go in.”

“ In the glove box.  I have a couple rolled.”

“ Praise the Rising Lord!” Nabien exclaimed, “ Light one up!”

He had two good, deep hits in him when Auwa stopped.  Mairon knew the dark house – its backyard abutted his parents.

“ Mymsa D.’s dog?”  Mairon asked. 

“ Little, ankle-mauling bastard died last year,” Zaekir responded.  “ Her kids won’t let her get a new one.”

“ Good.”  He climbed out of the car.  Stretched.  Wondered if he could make it through the yard and the gap in the fence before his bladder got the better of him.  Long legs made short work of the Dajeen’s property.

He barely made it.  Peeing on his father’s rose bushes, he thought about the wrap party - the withering canapés, the sub-par wine, the fucking small talk. 

Deep satisfaction filled him - this had been a much better, much more productive use of his night.  Humming softly under his breath, with a jaunty bounce in his step, he let himself into the shed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maybe that should be psychopath...but then, does either concept really apply to Umaiar?
> 
> I've never fictionally murdered anyone before. Does it work? I must have re-written this chapter a dozen times trying to cover all the details as Mairon, himself, would. Darn, it was hard.
> 
> Again, sorry for making you wait! Sorry for leaving your comments unanswered! I reiterate my promise to get to them in the next couple of days...it's got to be a little at a time right now but I want to make sure each comment has the attention it deserves! <3!!


	13. While You Were Gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn, the Dread Dark Lord's Household is a MESS! Melkor is annoyed. The Lesser Umaiar are out of control. Langon's a jerk and Thuringwethil pays for it. Melkor doesn't care - but what else is new?
> 
> With thanks to Morgause1 for the word "fuligin" which means darker than black! And for the book recommendation!

**_While You Were Gone_ **

 

The gilt-frame mirror in the main room emitted a river of opaque, roiling shadow.  It billowed and twisted.  A funnel churned in its heart, expanding outward until the entire flat blackened as if dead night.  With a sudden muttering, rushing noise it sucked in on itself and became a humanoid figure.  For a moment, that shape pulsed.  A dark whirlwind raged within.  Then it solidified.

The piano hummed discordant.  The other scattered musical instruments sounded one note in single, unanimous, cacophony. 

A long swathe of colorless hair cascaded around broad shoulders.  Hollow filaments appeared pure white to match eyes without sclera, cornea, or pupil.  The wide chest expanded, drawing a deep breath.

Color ran like poured ink, turning both hair and eyes jet black.  Marble flesh settled, gleaming cold and white before assuming the warmer tones of mortal skin.  Pupil and sclera bloomed in those black eyes as they turned a dark shade of blue.

He spoke.  Deep, resonant, sarcastic, “ Honey, I’m home.”

The shadows in the corners vibrated in an ecstatic paean.  Blinds rippled, carpet tassels danced and, in the kitchen, the electrical appliances whirred to life for a moment.

“ I hope you’ve all been productive while I was gone.”  Everything abruptly stopped.  “ Lazy little shits.”  He rumbled affectionately.

A goblin pattered from a back room holding the slide of a disassembled gun in one hand and an oily rag in the other.  He paused in the arched hall entry and gave an awkward bow.

“ Glad to see _something_ getting done.”  The tall figure made a summoning gesture and clothing assembled itself out of thin air.  “ You do 'em all, Vermin?”

The little creature nodded.

“ Polish and oil my armor while you were at it?”

Another nod and a second strange, jerky bow.

“ Very well.”  He paused, head tipping to one side.  “ What _is_ …that?”  For preternatural hearing perceived a thin, high-pitched – eerie - wail riding the air.

The little goblin gestured with his oily rag toward the now perfectly normal mirror.  It rippled, colors shifting, and suddenly reflected an image of the master bedroom downstairs.

A small figure lay face down on the floor, both little hands clutching the blanket pallet.  The grieving cry paused, a long shuddering breath sounded, and then the horrible, high-pitched keen resumed.

“ He not return,” hissed the goblin. “ Rat despair, Master.”

“  I can see that.  And _hear_ it.  Well, fuck.” Irritably.  He growled, “ I presume this means there’s no damn dinner.”

The vile noise redoubled.  Every pane of glass in the house began to vibrate.

“ Pizza then.”  He gestured to one of the shadows lurking in a corner, “ Go tell her,” pointing downward, “ order pizza.  Tell her make it fast.  This flesh needs fuel.”  The shade whipped in a circle and darted down the closest air duct.

“ Ai, Vermin, shut up.  Come here.”

The keening stopped.  Rat pulled herself to her feet and dragged across the floor to the window that completed the portal.  She climbed up onto the sill and fell forward to land face down on the floor before the mirror.  Using her hands, she hauled her flesh across the floor to lie at the tall man’s feet. 

She moaned.

“ One of you put in a DVD while I wait for pizza.”  He growled.  Reaching down, He grabbed Rat’s threadbare frock and pulled her straight up.  Lifting her slightly above eye level, He sighed as He looked at her face.

Black lips formed an agonized square, revealing an improbable number of needle-like teeth.  Her eyes were screwed shut.

“ I should drop and crush you underfoot, Maia, you know that.”

She hiccupped.

“ Ahhhh, fuck,” under His breath. 

The widescreen TV dominating the interior wall flickered to life.  Still holding her, He settled himself on the comfortable couch.  Then, to the amazement of every spirit in the room, He lowered her, face down, on one long thigh.  Arms and little legs adangle, she just lay. 

He…actually…patted…her…back.

The Vermin with the dissembled gun and oily rag stared with an open mouth and wide dark eyes.

The TV suddenly emitted a high-pitched scream and the buzz of a chainsaw.  The picture reflected the noise-an open-mouthed human female running, a masked figure wielding the power tool giving pursuit.  And gaining.

“ Look, it’s your favorite funny movie.”  He said, using limp black hair to pull her head up.  The screams reached a peak, stopped, and the sound of the chainsaw became wet.

The incorporeal spirits emitted waves of silent laughter. 

“ Purpose, Maia?”  The tall man looked pointedly at the staring goblin.

“ Yes, Master.”  He stopped gawping and hurried back down the hallway from which he’d come.   

A few minutes later, he reappeared pulling a thick wad of unfolded newspaper.  There were the parts of at least three dissembled firearms spread over it.  A closed bottle of oil and a number of rags.  And an articulated steel gauntlet of cunning design.  He positioned his work before the TV and plonked his bottom on the floor to watch the movie.

On the big screen, blood and bits of flesh sprayed and splattered.  Several of the shadows incorporated – forming eyes of many sorts – to watch the building carnage. 

The tall man looked on with only a fraction of His attention.

Occasionally, His hand on the small creature stroked its little back.  Damn thing kept whimpering.  Mewled while her siblings chortled at the images of flayed flesh and exposed bone. 

The Master muttered, “ That’s not how it works.  Fucking stupid,” to Himself under His breath, “ they can’t scream once you’ve done that,”

Half an hour passed.  The Little Ones became a sea of creatures on the floor until they covered the carpet and leaked off its edges.  Claws and paws clapped, pincers clicked, during particularly violent scenes.  Shrill giggles and wicked chortles punctuated each piercing scream.  Each bubbling gurgle.

The Vermin finished cleaning all three guns.  He reassembled them with deft expertise.  Unlike his siblings, Vole did not laugh.  Occasionally, he observed Rat where she lay on the Master’s leg.  A thoughtful expression worked over his hideous little face.

Over two dozen heads – of various grotesque and fantastical construction - turned when a knock sounded on the flat door.

“ Come!” The Master commanded over His shoulder.

“ Pizza, my Lord.”  Terese Withywindle slid the pocket door open just enough to let herself, and a flat cardboard box, into the chamber.  She sank into a deep curtsey, extending the red and blue box out as if it were a most precious cask of jewels.

The Master looked over his shoulder.  Frowned thunderously.  “ Lamia, you acquired only one?” With obvious displeasure.

She dared not respond.  Only sank further into her obsequious curtsy…and began to shake.  Ducked her head down further.

He rose and turned to berate her.  He’d lifted Rat by the back of her ragged frock as he stood.  Now he held out the little spirit.  “ What of your siblings?”  Dangling the Vermin as a singular example of those gathered on the floor.  “ What will fuel their flesh?  The fucking fridge is empty.  So is the pantry.  Shall they enact My Will on air?”  The sarcasm was back in full force.  “ On good feelings?  Langon knows full well – one all meat, one mushroom, and three cheese, you _wretched_ bitch.”

“ Your pardon, Dread Lord, I knew not!  Brother Langon left me no such information.”  She hastily, feverishly, tried to pass the blame.  “ I am abject, woe overflowing, to have displeased You, Master!”

“ Do better, Maia, or you could find yourself a discorporate observer… for I may decide that rendering your flesh from its bones is the best way to sustain the Household.”

Her mind became agile with self-preservation, “ My own good lord Lieutenant did ever scorn wasting resources, Master, as You may recall – he insisted always we husband Your assets.  Use them thoughtfully and with great care…”  She deliberately referenced the Master’s Favorite. 

But invoking Mairon's name was a mistake.  Rat’s swollen eyes flared open, glowing bright red rather than their usual deep black.  One deep inhale and the faint sounds of grief became a high-pitched screech of rage…and the little demon flowed into an amorphous mass of claw and fang.  The explosion, for a creature so small, was rather impressive.

The Master glanced at the growling, hissing ball of sentient energy.  His face tinged with amusement as He flicked wide His fingers.  Rat launched herself at the cowing vampire.  He reached out to snag the pizza.

The vampire shrilled – surprised and outraged – as the lesser Umaiar attacked.  Furious, she raised both arms to flail and bat at that little cloud of incandescent rage.

As He went back to the couch, the sea of small spirits flowed over, under, _through_ the comfortable furniture.  The little monsters were, individually, not that powerful but when they moved as one inexorable tide…

The Master sat down and balanced the pizza box on His knee.  He noted that one of His lesser servants had not joined the attack.  Vole stood on the arm of the couch, watching his siblings swarm.  

“ Ai, you.” He said, “ Beer.”  As an afterthought, “ We _better_ have beer.”

Vole nodded.  Chittering, he jumped down from the couch arm and darted through into the kitchen.

The Master opened the box.  “ What the fuck!”  In outrage as He looked at His meal.  “ By my divine balls, what is this?!”

The churning struggle before the door paused.  Terese Withywyndle – her black hair a riot around her scratched, bloodless face – gasped, “Pepperoni,  lord.”

The Master growled.  The swarm of lesser Umaiar hummed discordant at that displeased noise.  One of them slid the pocket door shut behind the vampire’s back - cutting off any retreat.

“ Shit.” The Master muttered, “ Fucking heartburn.”  He flipped two slices together, making a sandwich.  Bent the crusts with long fingers as he lifted them from the box.  After His first bite, He noted, “ You didn’t get extra cheese?  No wonder that mongrel bitch managed to skin you.  You’re an idiot.”

Vole returned from the kitchen with two bottles of cold beer.  The Master accepted one and twisted off its metal cap.  He took a long swig.  Vole kept the second ready, generating a chilled field around his little hands.

The battle resumed, redoubled, on the strength of their Lord’s displeasure.  Wood shuddered and groaned as the vampire slammed back against the door.

…there were just too many of them…and they kept coming…

The Master of the Household, that Great Dark Spirit who could be only partially defined by a mere name and had been known by so very many –  Bel, Belcha, Belegûr, Belegurth, Bauglir, Belekôrôz, Melkórë, Melko, Melegor, Meleko, Morgoth – switched over to the early evening news.  Glanced, briefly, at the empty place on His right.

Where Mairon should sit.  And share His Glory as the polished talking-head on the TV recounted a list of Great Works: two earthquakes, a landslide, a subterranean blaze in a coal mine down south.  A drought.  A nice little flood.

Taking a swig of cold beer, He growled again. 

The quiet struggle in front of the door continued unabated.

 

Harry Lang juggled several bags of fast food and one of fine cuisine.  He kicked the kitchen door shut.  Congratulated himself for retaining the entire damn lot as he negotiated the wooden stairs that zigzagged up the back of the old mansion.  He was late and hoped he might slip in unnoticed.

Last time he’d tried to Report, the Master’d been out.   The Little Ones with no notion of where their Lord dallied.  All par for the course.  The Dread Lord shared His movements, His schemes, with only one of their host – and Mairon’s absence made itself more keenly felt while each year, each day - each damned hour - slipped by.

“ I’ve got to get to the store,” he muttered.  Last time he’d glanced in the fridge there’d been only a twelve pack of expensive beer, a bottle of even more-expensive red wine, and a tub of brown mustard.

He hoped there was still beer.  By the Master’s claws, he could use one!  Several.

He grimaced when he heard the nightly news going at a loud volume.  The grimace became a worried scowl.

The Master was definitely in residence.

Then he heard the chaotic, cacophonous riot whispering under the newscast.  He crept over to peer into the main room.

Thuringwethil, hard pressed against the doors, took a beating.  Her silk dress hung in tatters around her and pale flesh dripped blood from hundreds of little scratches.  She fought – fangs snapping, claws raking – but the Little Ones were Legion.  Those she tossed from the fray sprang back undaunted.

He almost, _almost_ , felt sorry about the dead prostitute he’d stuffed into her unused pantry.  Not enough to move the corpse, though.

Turning from the sight, he deposited his burden on the kitchen counter and unloaded boxes of chicken nuggets and French fries.  Considered the best course of action

Vole - anticipating that the Lord would want more beer now that He’d broached the second - pattered into the kitchen.

The Vermin chittered with pleased surprise and climbed the cupboard handles to snag a container of fries.  He buried his face in the open box and came up with a mouthful of golden sticks protruding from black lips.  Expression ecstatic, he chewed with enthusiasm.

“ I see our sister has her troubles.”  The Superior Umaia commented to the Lesser.

Vole shrugged.

“ Ketchup?”  The creature who walked among mortals as “Harry Lang” offered a couple of packets.

Vole took them and, once his mouth was clear, squeezed the red contents directly onto his little black tongue before going down for more fries.

“Harry” went to peek through the door again.  The Master ignored the fracas; watched the news without concern.  But He’d never had a care for such things…they had ever been beneath His notice.

“ We Heralds should, I suppose, cohere.  Guard our Rank,” He muttered to himself as he moved back toward the counter and the waiting food.

Vole finished the fries and ketchup.  He hopped down, opened the fridge, and pulled out two more beers.  Cheeped as he offered one up to the taller Umaia.

“ Oh, fuck, yes.  Nuggets?”  He lowered one of the twenty-piece boxes.  Opening the beer with his other hand,  he took a long gulp.

Vole took a handful – two or three.  He crammed them in.

“ What started all that?”  Langon, Herald of Utumno and Speaker for Melkor, jerked his head to indicate the dogged brawl.

The smaller Umaia projected out a series of concepts and a stream of images while he chewed.

“ Shit, she’s gonna be pissed at me,” Langon muttered,  “ I meant to make her a cheat sheet.  I’ve been busy selling houses.  I need those commissions,” he grumbled. 

The Master’s coffers required filling.  The Great Lord had expensive taste.  And Langon, while occupying flesh, needed to eat.  Acquire stylish clothes.  Meet car payments.  Pay for the occasional nice hooker.  He didn’t pay the not-nice ones.  The women who tried to drug and rob him – "roll" him as the humans called it.

Like the one he’d stashed in Thuringwethil’s pantry.

The Master’s treasury was in shambles without their Lieutenant’s meticulous, and parsimonious, oversight.

“ We really need Mairon,” Langon whined, then groaned in disbelief.  “ I _never_ thought I’d hear myself say anything of the like…”  Never!

Hypercritical, frugal, jealous, self-righteous Mairon – “ Fuck.”

“ More beer!”  The Master shouted from the main room.

Vole startled, twitching, and squeaked in alarm.  Ran out with the bottle clutched in both hands.

Langon got a large bowl from one cupboard.  He dumped the nuggets into it.  There was only one thing for it.  He stepped into the doorway.

“ Master, permission to Report?”

The Lord glared at him from the couch.  “ How am I supposed to hear anything with that going on?”  He snapped, jerking His head to signify the brawl behind Him.  

But, Langon noted sourly, Melkor did nothing to stop the altercation.  It would only take a Word…half a Word…a damned syllable. 

“ Please allow me, my Lord,” Langon held up the bowl.

The Master growled and waved His hand – indicating Langon should get on with it. 

Utumno’s Herald approached the tumultuous struggle.  “ Dinnertime!”  He lobbed a handful of nuggets at the fight.

Langon earned a grateful flash of Thuringwethil’s huge, black nocturnal eyes from within the sea of roiling, boiling Umaiar.  She was starting to tire; lose hold on her human form.

“ Chicken nuggets!” Langon threw another handful.

The Little Ones broke off their attack.  Scrabbling on the floor with paw and claw, they snatched the golden lumps and jammed them into various types of orifices.

Langon noted that one, however, continued to test Thuringwethil’s defenses.  Drove itself without surcease at the exhausted vampire.

Damned if he didn’t know who that was.  Despite the lack of flesh.  That Vermin, she’d acquired more and more of their Lieutenant’s attributes the longer she’d served him.  Just as stubborn and obdurate as Mairon.  Pissy little bitch.

“ Oh, come on!” Thuringwethil groaned.

“ Funny movie…”  The Master sang behind Langon’s back.  A piercing scream rocketed out of the TV.

The Little Ones flowed in a malignant stream around the couch and back onto the carpet.  A small demon with four arms, leathery black skin, and long drooping antennae reached up to Langon.  It demanded the bowl of nuggets with hissing, scratching noises.

“ Fries are in the kitchen, go get them.”  He told it.  “ When all are seated, you may have more nuggets.  Grab the sauces.”

“ Get this bitch _off_ me,” Thuringwethil panted.

“ Ai, Vermin, come here.”  Over on the couch, Melkor patted one long thigh.  Neither Herald saw the gesture.  Hence their great surprise – consternation – when Melkor pulled their bodiless little sister onto his lap.

Rat assembled flesh.  Looking no more content than she had before.

“ She thinks it’s him.”  Melkor nearly crooned as he stroked Rat’s head.

Chitter CLICK!  She affirmed.

A wave of pleased “ Ahhh,” went through the sea of little Umaiar – who had now attained their French fries.  And waited impatiently with little cups of dipping sauces.

“ Permission to Report, Master.” Langon rounded the couch and planted himself amid the malevolent little crowd.  He handed the bowl of nuggets down, admonishing them,  “ Share!”

They glared at him.  But they passed the bowl around.

Vole padded into the kitchen.  He returned with the Styrofoam box from the fancy restaurant bag.  And a fork.  He offered both to the Master.

“ Good, real food.”  Melkor took the Votive and abandoned the pizza box onto the coffee table before Him.  There were still two pieces left amid a pile of abandoned crusts.  He popped open the Styrofoam box, and, discarding the fork on the couch, picked up the whole sirloin steak it contained.  Ripped off a third with one bite.

With a grimace of distaste, Melkor tossed the Little Ones the green beans and slivered almonds that had come as one of his side dishes.  They devoured them, too, but without the enthusiasm of the fries and nuggets.

“ Hmp.”  He lifted his chin at Langon.  Pulling a lump of fat out of His mouth, He offered it to the Umaia on His lap.  Rat snapped it up.

 “ Report.”  Melkor commanded around His mouthful of steak.

“ ‘Tis him, Master.” Langon offered his opinion. 

“ Yes.  Him.”  Thuringwethil agreed from her sprawl on the floor.  She sounded as wrecked as she looked.

“ ‘Wethil, did he stare at your tits at all?” Langon asked.

“ Wanted nothing to do with me.”  The vampire pushed herself slowly up the door.  The last two had made the most pathetic passes…one of them had even tried to cop a feel.  “ Did everything he politely could to get out of a Tarot reading.”

“ If that’s not our Brother Mairon, I’ll be damned,”  Langon said.

“ You are damned,” Melkor reminded, “ you Look to Me.”  He glanced over his shoulder, “ You’re a fucking mess, lamia.”

“ Yes, Master.”  Thuringwethil bowed her head.  She was – hair a tangled jumble and clothing torn to shreds.  Bleeding from almost everywhere.

“ Never underestimate the Little Ones,” Melkor reminded, “ they fought well during The First War against my usurping fuck of a brother.”

“ AHHH!”  Exclaimed the Lesser Umaiar.  They’d never heard _that_ before.

The Enemy had captured them in vast numbers.  Taken them out of play before the game had really begun.

For no reason Langon could fathom, it seemed that their teeming masses had returned to serve Melkor.  His new hidden fortress up under the Arctic was full of the little bastards.  Driving Lungorthin insane – which was about the only advantage Langon saw to their restoration.

“ There are just so many of them,” Melkor sounded very pleased.  He cast an approving eye over the Lesser Umaiar.  That, too, was utterly new and they preened as one.  Began a silent, vibrating paean of worshipful Adoration.

“ You, eat.”  Melkor poked Vole with a greasy finger.  Handed him a nice, dripping lump of steak fat, too.  “ Give them the crusts,”  Melkor told Langon, indicating the cast off pizza box.

The Herald tore the pizza crusts into sections and tossed them into the pack.  Vole waded amid the swarm.  He claimed the nugget bowl and slapped an insectile sibling until it gave up its second tub of sweet 'n’ sour sauce.  When the Vermin brought the bowl back, he offered it to the Master and Rat.  Half a dozen nuggets rolled around the bottom.

“ Mmm,” Melkor took one, dipped it into the tub and popped it in his mouth.  Rat grabbed a handful and the sweet 'n' sour.  Vole finished them off and licked up the last of the sticky sauce when Rat gave him the little plastic container.

“ Did you two get fries?”  Melkor asked the Vermin.

Vole nodded.  Rat shook her head.

Langon watched with a bitter glint in his green eyes; begrudged them the Master’s Favor.  It wasn’t right.  It was just wrong, dammit.  Melkor had never deigned to notice Little Ones before.  Didn’t even know their bloody _names_.

“ Pizza?”  Melkor asked Rat.  She made a face and shook her head again.  He looked up at Langon, “ You may eat pepperoni pizza, Herald.”

“ Thank you, Master.” Langon bowed low.  He grabbed one of the congealed wedges from the open box.  When he started to sit on the couch, Melkor glared at him.  Langon sank onto the floor with the others.

Shit.

“ Have the mashed potatoes.”  Melkor offered Rat his open Styrofoam box.  “ I’m full.”

Rat went face down into the container.  She came up with a white mustache and beard.  A dot on her very pointy nose.

“ Permission to withdraw, Master.”  Thuringwethil petitioned from where she leaned heavily on the door. 

Langon imagined she needed to hunt.  Replenish both the energy and blood that the Lesser Umaiar had wrung from her during the Battle of Mentioning Mairon at the Wrong Time.

Melkor lifted one hand and waved the vampire off.  Once dismissed, she slid open the door and fell out onto the landing.  Some handsome young mortal was doomed this Saturday night.

“ It’s a shit night for TV,”  Melkor muttered, “ put in another movie,” to the Umaiar on the floor.

“ We could watch porn,” Langon suggested hopefully.  He had to pay for it but Melkor had set up a fantastic cable pirating array.  Everything was free.

The Lesser Umaiar booed and hissed with disapproval.  Most of them were genderless.  Barely even humanoid.

“ No.”

A dozen little claws, paws, and pincers, popped up with DVD cases.  Melkor looked them over.

“ Seen it four times.  Three times.  Twice.  Eh, that one.  Once was enough.”  The Master pointed.  “ Battles of the Second World War in colour - that was good.  Oo, the building of the Greater Anduin Dam…”

Langon sighed.  Shit twice.  But, the Little Ones knew their Lord and what would interest Him.

“ I’ll watch that with Mairon,” Melkor pointed down the hallway, “ put it in my bedchamber.”  A sibling smirked with triumph as it clattered away.

“ Lake Cabin Massacre,” Melkor mused.  “ Have we seen that?

Rat and Vole shook their heads.  Langon said, “ I don’t think so, Master.”

“ I could use a good laugh.  Put it in.” 

As they waited for the movie to queue, Melkor announced, “ ‘Tis generally concurred -  this one may be Mairon.  Time for me to see for myself.”

Rat gave a bitter, mournful cheep.

“ Do not doubt his return,” Melkor said, with confidence, “ he signed a contract.”

If it were Mairon, he would uphold it to the least clause - the smallest small print.  His inherent Nature would allow nothing less.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is anyone surprised that the Vala of Chaos's Household is....well, chaotic? It's going to get worse before it gets Mairon, you can be assured of that! And those of you who are unhappy about 'Wethil's predicament due to Langon's negligence... don't worry, that will shake down in the next chapter.
> 
> Hi, everybody! Where the heck was I this week? Finishing and filing my taxes, because it's that time of year - yeeck! - in this country. It took me Way Too Long, but now it's done and I can get back to much more interesting things like writing, and reading, and social media. YAY!
> 
> The Fandom Appreciation is still on hold - While I was away from Tumblr there was a bunch of name changes and I have to figure out who's who. My love and respect for my Fandom remain unswerving - Tolkien Fandom is creative, supportive, extrapolative, and blessed with some of the most wonderful, generous people you could ever want to meet!


	14. Taking Care of Business    Or   Can’t Live with ‘Em, Can’t Kill ‘Em

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we see why these two Dark Lords really do deserve one another. Rat is taking care of business, just as Mairon taught her. Mairon is taking care of his own business, as per his Nature. He seems such a generous guy, but...are those dark undercurrents running beneath the surface? It's Mairon, so, of course! Melkor is a Harsh God. And Langon pays for his transgressions. 
> 
> Klaxon noises - Graphic Violence Warning.

_**Taking Care of Business Or Can’t Live with ‘Em, Can’t Kill ‘Em** _

 

 

On Sunday, the Master slept. 

He manifested as a dense vapor that filled the big bedroom from corner to corner.  Thick, grey mist rolled along the floorboards, pulsing, roiling, – _breathing_.  As if even in slumber, the memory of flesh stayed with Him.  Dreams rippled through the amorphous vapor: streaking it with bands of color – ruby reds, pale gold, the pale blue of a pure flame…and an occasional stratum of opaque, fuligin darkness.

Langon lay face down on the couch in the main room.  Snoring.  The Herald had stripped to his underwear and clutched a throw pillow over his head.  Two empty bottles of cheap whiskey – big bottles – stood on the floor near his head.

Several of the Little Ones sat on his back, his arse, his thighs, and watched TV.  They’d muted the volume and turned on the closed captioning.  Vole sat cross-legged on the coffee table and silently read the words – projecting them as pure thought.  Most of the Lesser Umaiar could not read.

Incorporeal siblings floated and flowed – much as the Master did – over the polished wooden floors.  They chased each other over, under, and through the furniture and the musical instruments that filled the room.  Sometimes in play and sometimes with serious, malevolent, intent.

In the kitchen, the fridge and cupboard doors opened and closed.  A wave of discontent wafted out with each little click.  The pantry door shut once with a decided thud.

“ Shut up,” Langon growled from beneath his pillow.  He buried his face deeper in the couch cushions. “ Little bastards.”

Rat sat on the floor by the window surrounded by a pile of glossy magazines pilfered from the neighbors’ mailboxes.  Occasionally, she ripped out a page and lay it aside.  Her loose stack contained adverts for stylish men’s clothing, nifty kitchen appliances, and useful household tools.  At the moment, an eight and a half quart Crockpot topped the pile.

She opened a new magazine and squeaked with amazement.  Leaning over it intently, she began to flip through the pages with obvious excitement.

Vole, noting this, clicked once.  Rat held up the magazine and emitted an ultrasonic burst of sheer exhilaration.  Vole looked at the picture she showed him, frowned, and shook his head.  She heaved an impatient sigh.

The Lesser Umaiar seated on the Herald’s body protested and pointed unhappily at the TV.  Langon growled again.  Vole returned to his translating.

Rat scoured the magazine from start to end three times before she ripped out a page.  Crooning over it, little hands smoothed the picture out against the floorboards.  She rose to her feet and, clutching the page to her chest, pattered down the hall to the open master bedroom door.

Gently, reverently, she laid it on the low bank of thick mist.  It hovered there, several inches above the floor.

Rat made an awkward squat of a curtsey and backed off.  She knew how to avail herself of the Master’s Favor after long Ages of watching her Lieutenant: following Lord Mairon’s example of softly-softly, smoothly-smoothly.  Alas, however, she had no hope of imitating his exceeding charm.  But it was still worth a try.

She cast a last, longing glance at the picture of the sewing machine.

As she returned to the main room, a small contingent of siblings confronted her at the arched entry.  They held out empty cookie boxes and dead potato crisp bags.  One had an open can of coffee and sniffed at the black flakes.

Rat cheeped.  Lifted one palm in a clear, “ No.”

She sighed.  Glared at Langon where he, again, snored on the couch.  There was nothing else for it, then.

Rat would have to raid the coffer and make a trip to the corner shop at the end of the road.  That meant picking an outfit from the hideous selection of pre-made clothes that Thuringwethil had provided.

First, she took the can of coffee back to the kitchen.  Next, she chased off her siblings – sending them scattering to the far corners of the flat – before she went to the iron-banded strong box that took up the whole floor in the coat closet. 

It contained paper money from every modern Nation of the Edain, currency from several of the long-gone Eldar Kingdoms, gold Mairai from Morder, and a small, precious supply of truly ancient coinage from Lord Melkor’s empire in Beleriand.  The pure coinage - _not_ the ones of lead concealed in thin gold plate.

Not to mention the heaped gemstones.  A supply of diamonds, emeralds, rubies, and sapphires - both cut and uncut.  Which were surprisingly useless these days.  No one would take them in exchange for goods.

Rat counted out several five and ten-pound notes.  The corner shop charged damned outrageous prices!  And had a limited selection.  Taking the cash with her, she went to where she’d stashed the horrible clothes in Melkor’s spare bedroom.

Puppies, or bunnies, or kittens – Rat scowled.  She knew that vampiric bitch had done this on purpose!  Sorting through, she selected the least offensive set she could.  A skirted tunic decorated with big yellow and pink flowers and a pair of bright pink leggings.  She couldn’t bear the little pink bowed barrettes so she took the yellow ones.

One day she’d chew into that damn vampire and spill her guts on the floor.

Rat stuffed the cash into a plastic purse decorated with pink bunnies.

Looking at herself in the mirror, she subtly shifted her flesh.  Deep-set black eyes turned hazel.  Her pointy little face smoothed out.  Vast amounts of needle-like fangs became a set of omnivore’s shiny white teeth.  She scowled even harder at her reflection -  by the Master’s balls!  So…human.

With a pair of pink slip-on shoes in hand, she pattered for the kitchen door.  In the main room, she paused.

Vole poked Langon.  Obviously not for the first time.  The Herald had rolled over and clutched the pillow to his chest.  The ones who’d sat on Langon now perched on the back of the couch to observe the confrontation.

Vole chittered, telling Langon to get up and call for pizza.

“ No.  Fuck off.”

Vole chattered.

“ Shit, what a hangover.”  Langon rolled back onto his face, muttering, “ I don’t answer to you.  I outrank you.  Fuck off!”

The Lesser Umaiar hissed as one.

“ You can _all_ fuck off,” Langon growled into the cushions, “ eat the dead hooker in ‘Wethil’s pantry.”

They’d sniffed her.  She smelled of sickness.  And the corpse was old.  It had withered and was starting to stink.  The flesh would taste terrible. 

Eyes cold, Rat assessed the Herald’s prostrate body.  Wondered if the Master’s mercurial Favor might extend far enough to catch Langon the beating he deserved.  But her Lieutenant’s training was too firmly in place: first things first – provide for the Household.  Assure that every creature was fit to fulfill the Master’s Will.

Personal issues must wait.

Rat clicked at Vole to get his attention.  She waved a contemptuous hand at Langon’s snoring length to indicate that Vole should let the Herald be.

Vole came to her and followed her into the kitchen.  As she stepped into the repulsive pink shoes, he hissed, “ Vole with Rat.”

She shook her head.

“ Vole with Rat!”  He shifted into a more human appearance and smoothed his dark hair.  Chittered at her to wait while he changed into less comfortable clothes.

Rat’s face lit.  She nodded.  He hurried away and returned a few minutes later wearing a brown sweater with a dog knitted into its pattern and a baggy pair of blue jeans.  Running shoes in hand.

“ Park?” As he donned his shoes.  “ Catch.” With a dark grin.

Sometimes an adult human – usually a male – would follow them home from the park.  It was a wonderful hunting ground!  They’d developed such a nice system.

But it was Sunday, and there would be too many witnesses.  Rat cheeped and chattered, reminding him of this, as she reached out to pat his arm.

“ Hot dogs, crisps,” He agreed, resigned.  “ Cookies?” Hopefully.

“ Cookies!” Whispered a dozen ghostly voices.  Faces literally emerged from the woodwork.  The Lesser Umaiar converged.  Stood around Rat and Vole nodding their heads, if they had one.

Rat cheeped softly.  They would get cookies.  But not for Langon, she added with a sharp little skree.  A wave of angry agreement swirled inside the Swarm.

“ Popcorn?”

Rat nodded to them.  They opened the kitchen door.  The Lesser spirits clustered in the windows, following level by level, to watch the Vermin descend the long, zigzagging stairwell outside the old mansion.

Then they hunkered down to wait.

 

Mairon sat at the kitchen table and rested his head in his hands.

 It’d taken the whole damned day to get his father released from hospital.  Darib had not wanted the wheelchair.  The staff insisted that their insurance policies wouldn’t permit the old man to walk out under his own power.  There’d been a two-hour fight over it.

Now Khadi and Faroula were upstairs trying to wrangle him into pajamas and back into bed.  Mairon had just finished making dinner.  Trying not to fall asleep as he sat.  Damn, he was getting old.  A sleepless night wouldn’t have bothered him this much when he’d been in his twenties.

Now he just wanted to close his eyes.

His phone rang and he wondered where in hell he’d left it.  '

As he lifted his head, he heard Khadi ask, “ Whose Marcus?”

Whipped around to find her standing in the living room looking down on his phone where it lay on the coffee table.

“ No one!”  He snarled.

“ Well, excuse me!  ‘No one’ just called you, then.”  She snapped back.

Shit!  He’d forgotten all about that issue.

“ He’s a friend.”  Mairon reigned himself in sharply.  He got up to check the lamb staying warm in the oven and recover the offending phone.

“ You have friends?  I don’t believe it.”  Khadi was still annoyed.  Then she paused.  An evil, impish look crossed her lovely face.  “ A boyfriend, Roni?”

For a moment, he considered wiping that look off her face with the truth.  But he couldn’t predict how she’d react to "The Dom I pay to restrain and beat me once a month so I can fucking well avoid boyfriends."  She might tell Faroula.  Then their mother would demand more therapy and counseling. 

He’d had _quite_ enough of that.

“ A friend-friend.”  Mairon lied without batting an eyelash.  “ I’ll call him after we eat.”

She gave him a suspicious glare but let it go.  “ Aba insists on eating down here.”

“ He’s probably sick of being in bed and starving for real food.”  Mairon began to set the table.

Khadi came over to help.  She spooned veggies into serving bowls he’d warmed with hot water.  Brought them to the table.  “ Today reminded me why I chose a doctor’s office instead of hospital.  What a pain in..”  She stopped.

“ Pain in your ass, pain in my ass, pain in everybody’s ass.”  Mairon finished for her.

“ Yes!” She agreed.  “ Is the lamb done?”

“ Hopefully it’s still got some pink in it,” Mairon grumbled.  He donned hot mitts and got it out of the oven.  Carved the lamb and lined up slices on the warmed platter.

“ I want him to look at the dishwasher, and the dryer, while he’s home.” Darib’s voice floated in from the hallway.

“ He’s here to see you, not fix things.” Faroula scolded.  She steered her husband into the kitchen.  “ Next you’ll want him to caulk the windows.”

“ I don’t mind,”  Mairon said, turning with the platter of lamb.  “ But not tonight.”

They all converged at the table.  Mairon pulled out Darib’s usual chair and helped his father sit down.  Khadi filled a plate with food and spent a few minutes cutting it up.  The old man’s right arm was in a sling and, being one handed, he couldn’t do it himself.

Mairon looked again at Darib’s abused face, “ Aba, you make sure to tell everyone they should see the other guy, ok?”  The bruising was livid.  His nose impressively swollen.

“ Bah!” Faroula scorned.  But Darib grinned, then winced.

“ Don’t make me laugh, son.  It hurts.”

“ Then you need another pill.” Khadi admonished.

“ No, I don’t.”

“ After dinner.” Faroula said at the same time.

“ Let’s eat.”  Mairon sank into his own usual seat.  “ Sorry, the lamb’s overdone.”

His parents waved that off.  Khadi shrugged.  Everyone behaved and they shared a nice meal.  Darib and Faroula had a little squabble over their decaf coffee.  She wanted him to go upstairs to bed.  He wanted a break from that.  Mairon skillfully got them to agree on a couple of hours in front of the TV for the old man.

While they were watching the Sunday Night Family Movie, he took a cup of tea with him as he slipped out the back door.  Standing on the narrow porch, he called Marcus and left a voicemail when the other man did not, thank the Rising Lord, pick up.

“ Don’t call me back, I’m out of town.  Family business.  I’ll contact you later in the week.  I haven’t changed my mind.”

Pocketing his phone, he considered that he’d have to reactivate his account on BDSM.com.  Start the whole process from scratch.  Damn.

“ Ah, there’s the family fire-lily.”  A deep, contemptuous voice startled him out of his discontented thoughts.

“ That’s Doctor-Doctor-Doctor Master Engineer Fire-Lily to you,” Mairon responded coldly, “ also, Certified blacksmith.”  He looked down at his uncle.

“ From a boy who didn’t talk until he was six.”

Rising Lord, how he’d always hated this man.

“ Hin Zigur,” his aunt came up behind her husband.  _"Little Wizard"_ , she called him, and he preferred it infinitely to _"fire-lily"._   “ Three ‘doctors’!”  She exclaimed, “ When did you get the third?”  With genuine affection and excitement.

“ A year after I started at Artano Industries.”  He leaned down to kiss her as she topped the stairs.

“ We’ve come to see Darib.  Is he well enough for visitors?”  She asked.

“ They’re watching TV.”  Mairon responded as she let herself into the house.

“ Sister-mine,” She called, “ coming in.”

“ Come through, come through,” Faroula called.

“ At least you had the decency to come when they needed you,” His uncle looked as though that burned on his tongue as he went into the house. “ Fire-Lily.”

Zaekir skulked as he brought up the rear.  “ Sorry, Roni,” under his breath, “ he can be such an old-fashioned assh-”

“ We know what he is,”  Mairon responded.  If only the animosity between them wasn’t so well known in the community.  If only he wasn’t Zaekir’s father…

Mairon could have dealt properly with the old shit.  Like he’d dealt with two generations of Hansons.

 Put to good use the knowledge he’d acquired at nineteen out in the Harad sands when the family had sent he and Zaekir on that "cultural holiday" to "learn their heritage".  That’s not all they’d learned, not at all.

They’d learned some very effective tricks.  Dangerous ones.

Zaekir put a hand on Mairon's arm.  They waited for the inside door to close.  Everyone would assume they’d gone to the shed for a quick rip off the bong – which would have Zaekir’s father bitching about "these kids nowadays".

“ I’ve got clients who’ve stopped calling.  They’re finding other ways to get what they want, Zig,”  Zaekir whispered – soft and earnest. “ I need to assure them we’re still in business.  Still dedicated to The Cause.”

“ When did you sell the last unit?”  Mairon murmured.

“ Six months ago.  They weren’t happy that they could only have the one.  You’re going to lose your reputation for reliable, powerful product.  Superior product.”

Mairon did some swift math and frowned sharply.  “ Where’s my cut?”

“ Here,” Zaekir yanked a thick wad of cash out of his jacket pocket and jammed it into Mairon’s hand.  “ Laundered and squeaky clean.  If you don’t find a new place to work soon,”

Mairon folded one long, elegant hand around the money and tucked both under his arm as if he were cold standing out here in the evening air.  He took a casual sip at the last of his spiced tea.

“ I just signed a contract on a new flat.  But you don’t set up production overnight.  It takes time to prep a work area.  Gather materials.  And I’ve got a couple of ideas, new designs, I want to try.”

“ Play all you want later.  _Make_ me something to show the buyers.” Zaekir whispered urgently.

“ This Project’s over.”  Mairon assured, “ I’ll have some free time until Aulë assigns me another.  He’ll want me to rest up.  He’s really very considerate that way.  I can have a standard unit out in….maybe a month if I can get all the materials.”

He thought about the major promotion coming to the table at Artano Industries.  One Mairon felt he was not only infinitely qualified for but deserved above all his fellow employees.

And that meant his Security Clearances had to be even more squeaky clean than Zaekir’s laundered cash.

He’d have to be extremely cautious.

But he also understood where Zaekir was coming from.  It wasn’t that his cousin needed the money.  It was a word-of-mouth market.  Trust the most precious commodity.  Discretion, too.

Mairon didn’t want himself, or Zaekir, to take a bullet to the back of the head because some twitchy zealot doubted their dedication. Their passion.  Feared they might walk…or talk.

“ The fire at your last place,” Zaekir fretted.

“ Legitimate accident.  _Nothing_ to do with me.”  The idiot downstairs had left a burning hotplate on a faulty plug.  “ The fire marshals found _nothing_ suspicious.  I don’t leave an evidence trail.  Ever.”

The fire marshals had thought his workspace was a weed grow-room.  And since weed was perfectly legal….

The door beside them opened.  Khadi looked at them with surprise.

“ Thought we were getting high?” Zaekir forced a grin.

“ I’ve been sent to summon you back from the lure of the wicked weed.”  She nodded, “ What’re you doing?”

“ Talking.  Perfectly straight.” Zaekir grimaced at her.  “ Unfortunately.”

“ We do that sometimes,”  Mairon added, deadpan.

She shot him a dark, knowing look.  “ And sometimes you stay out all night.”  She muttered.  But she didn’t ask.  “ Get in here.  Take your share of ‘get married, have babies’.”  Tartly.

Zaekir groaned.

“ Yay,” Mairon muttered.  “ Should’ve hit the bong.”  They went into the house.

In the living room, an uncomfortable conversation was in full swing:

“ Ah, I remember the first time we took him to the community pool – he screamed like a banshee.”  His aunt sighed nostalgically.

“ He loved a hot bath,” Faroula, “ why the pool bothered him…”

“ Such a pity his mother had to leave that note.”  Auntie lamented, “ Mairon Tesazdi sounds better than ‘Smith’.  Doctor Mairon Tesazdi.  Note or no note, they should have let you adopt him when she never came back!”

 “ They’ve moved on to you.” Khadi breathed a sigh of relief.

Mairon cursed under his breath.  “ Definitely should’ve ripped that bong.”  He hung back as Zaekir and Khadi headed in to join their parents.  “Making another pot of tea.”  He stashed the wad of cash in an upper cupboard.  “ Who wants a cup?”

Zaekir and his mother said they did.  The kettle still had plenty of hot water so he popped another couple of teabags in the pot and topped it off.

“ Three doctorates now!”  Auntie praised, raising her voice to make sure he could hear her.  “ Such a _brilliant_ boy!  Now he needs to find a nice man.  Settle down.  Start a family.”

“ _Not_ gonna happen.”  Mairon muttered under his breath.

“ More little redheads wandering around, taking apart everything they can get their hands on.”  Uncle scoffed as Mairon brought the fresh pot and three cups with him into the living room.

“ Ah, that day you disassembled the microwave,” Darib smiled up at him.  Winced.  Touched his face gingerly.  “ Hadn’t been with us a week.”

“ Nothing was safe from our Rhonee and his clever little hands.” Faroula gave him a fond look.  “ Not a clock, or a lamp.  But you gave us a good scare when you took apart the microwave!  Still plugged in, you could have killed yourself!”

“ Aba explained electricity.”  Mairon said as he poured out the tea.

“ You were very good when I showed you that you had to put things back together,” Darib reached out to pat Mairon’s arm as he sank onto the couch next to his father.  “Always got it right the first time.” 

They’d had so much fun together.  And all the household appliances had lasted for years longer than their warranties.

“  You’re the reason I became an engineer first.”  Mairon smiled at his father.  Darib tried to grin back.  And then tried not to wince again.

Mairon leaned over to Khadi and whispered, “ Get Aba a pill.”

She nodded and left them for a few moments to grab a painkiller and a glass of water.  The old man took it without argument indicating just how bad he felt.

“ Do you still have those terrible dreams?” His aunt asked him.

“ No.”  Mairon lied.  There would be no more counseling.  No more therapy.

Zaekir came to his rescue, “ What’s going to happen about the car?”

The conversation veered.  The idea that Faroula would return north with him met general approval.  Auntie offered to help with meals and housework.  Zaekir said he’d run errands and shop.  Uncle sat with a surly expression and offered nothing while the rest of the family ignored him.

Mairon tried again to puzzle out a suitable "accident" to get rid of the old bastard.  Something short of blowing up the family Take-Away.  No matter how much he’d hated his summers working there as a teenager…it was his cousin’s legacy.  And a very convenient economic system to launder the money. 

Someday, Mairon thought and tucked the notion back in his mental file cabinet, as Faroula announced that it was time to get Darib into bed.  He’d nodded off thanks to the pain pill Khadi had given him.

Mairon helped his father up the stairs as the others parted ways in the kitchen.  As he swung Darib’s legs into the bed and got the covers comfortably arranged, the old man slurred, “ We would have adopted you if we could have, son.  You know that, don’t you?”

“ Never doubted it.”  Mairon assured.  Not once he’d been old enough to truly understand the situation.  “ Go to sleep, Aba.  Tomorrow morning you can tell me what you want me to tinker with – I’ll even let you supervise.  Just like the old days.”

“ You didn’t mean to hurt that boy.  You were just protecting Khadi,” Darib slurred.  Damn, the pill had really kicked in hard.  They didn’t talk about that.  Ever.

 “ Of course I didn’t, Aba.” Mairon lied. “ It just got out of hand.”  He smoothed the blankets and adjusted the pillows.  “ Go to sleep, Aba.”

Legally, it had never happened.  His juvenile record had been first sealed then expunged.  That "incident" had taught him the most valuable lesson he’d ever learned – leave no witnesses.

 

“ Give me a fucking cookie!”  Langon demanded.  The assault on Thuringwethil remained fresh in his mind - he dare not actually wade amid the Swarm to claim an open package.  He glared at them from the kitchen doorway as they occupied the linoleum floor.  Crunching loudly.  Smirking at him.

Little bastards.

“ And a cup of coffee!” Langon growled.

The rich, roasted-bean aroma of coffee had woken him.  By the Master’s balls, it smelled good!  But the percolator was on the counter on the far side of the Swarm.

They crunched louder.  Smirked wider.  One of them had the unmitigated gall to throw a raw, half-eaten hot dog at him.

Langon snarled as he plucked it from the air.

From the far side of the cluster, a snippy little chitter berated him.  The Vermin, Rat, called him out for not shopping.

“ I brought you nuggets and fries!”  He reminded, furious.

Rat waved a hot dog at Langon from her place on the floor.  She grimaced in distaste and skreed an angry Umaiar version of "What have you done for us lately?".  She passed an open plastic cookie tray - still a third full of sandwich crème cookies - to a nearby sibling.  The sandwich crèmes were, by far, the favorite.

 

In the master bedroom, that flowing, ebbing vapor thickened.  Darkened.  Contracted and swirled into a tall column.

 

“ Coffee!  Cookie!” Langon barked, “ Now!”  The Little Ones jeered him harder.

 

Melkor constructed flesh.  He looked absent-mindedly at the glossy page that He found in one large, dexterous hand.  Yawning, He scratched idly at His balls with the other.  Sucked at His fangs as they shifted into less dangerous dentition.  The smell of fresh brew impacted first in His nose then in His consciousness.

“ Hmm, coffee.”  He followed the scent: strolling for the kitchen unabashedly naked.  Noted absently that the blinds were open and full night showed beyond the slats.  “Coffee!” For He’d decided that He quite liked the black brew.  It had a sharp and bitter edge to it – just like Himself.

As he moved past Langon, one critical blue eye studied the Herald.

The Lesser Umaiar made way – groveling with just the right amount of proper deference.  The Vermin, Rat, stood on the counter with a gigantic mug in both hands – good.  She emptied nearly half the pot when she filled His favorite cup.

Melkor took it.  Despite the fact that the beverage was scalding hot, He downed most of it in one long gulp.  The other Vermin offered up both hands – one contained an open box of cookies and, in the other, a package of…what looked like sausage.  Raw sausage.

Melkor emptied His coffee mug and slammed it down on the counter.  Turning to Langon, He growled, “ You lazy sot.”

Langon’s angry expression shifted in an instant.  Abject fear drained all colour from his handsome face.  “ Milord,” his deep baritone quavered.  The Herald’s back hit the doorframe.  But he retreated no further.

He knew better than to plead for mercy.  No instinctual urge for flight accompanied the surge of sheer panic that spiked along his nerves and filled his head with deafening white static.  Langon did not even think to run.

It was foolhardy to flee in the face of Melkor’s rage.  The Vala’s hunting impulse catapulted to full life.  His pursuit was relentless.  Implacable.  Unescapable.  Every Umaiar understood this on a molecular level. 

Melkor’s eyes flared: changed from cobalt blue to solid black before blazing enraged cerise.  The Herald stared into that bloody hue.  He knew that his situation was imminently more dire than Thuringwethil’s little scrape last night.

Melkor did not look around as He pushed the glossy piece of paper against Rat’s chest.  She clutched it with both little hands.  One long, strong finger lifted to touch her pale forehead in a gesture of benediction.  Knowledge wafted into her with the delicate touch; He would construct this device.

But first, He had a matter to attend.

The Vala did not move.  One moment He stood at the counter and the next He stood before His Herald.  The hand lifted in benediction opened.  Melkor slapped Langon across the head so hard the Maia staggered under the blow.  The next strike, on the backswing, took the Herald at cheekbone and temple.

Crack! – dull percussion. 

The sound of Langon’s cheekbone shattering filled the kitchen.  Blow followed blow, and with each came the deep snap of bones fracturing – splintering.

Langon collapsed onto the floor.  Every instinct demanded full submission; his Maiarin Nature permitted no other measure.  He clenched his teeth, grunting, and groaning.  Stifling his pain.  Agony boiled in his chest as the Master kicked his ribs.  Precise strength, applied perfectly, to cause the most pain and maximum damage.

Melkor’s fingertips sprouted long, thin, wickedly curved claws.  His next blow pierced flesh.  Blood flowed as four long, deep slashes carved into Langon’s shoulder and along the curve of his side.

The Vala applied His claws to Langon’s torso.  Flayed open the Herald's back, shoulders, and arms.  The bone beneath shown through in stripes of red-framed white.  Red-gold blood pooled on the linoleum as the Umaia writhed in agony. 

Langon finally screamed.  Hoarse, rasping, a full-throated cry ripped out as the Master reduced muscle and skin to tattered ribbons.  Melkor reached down to enclose the Herald’s head in His large hand.  His thumb claw pierced through Langon’s cheek into his blood-filled mouth.

Growling low, Melkor shook Langon’s head – like a dog with a squirrel – until the Herald’s neck snapped with the loudest “crack!” yet.

But, the physical pain was not the worst of it.

Waves of disapproval, disgust, contempt – the Master’s Passion poured into him.  And Langon knew true anguish, pure torment, a thousand times more painful than any physical damage could invoke.

The Herald began to whimper, mewl in broken bursts, with each breath.  He twisted and churned on the floor.

Melkor, spattered and glistening gold-red with His handiwork, hissed.  He lifted one foot and brought it down on the Herald’s skull – exerting steady force.

Just as Langon’s head split, the Herald disbursed into a cloud of sentient energy.  Blue smoke mushroomed around Melkor’s foot as it met the floor.  The amorphous, molecular haze clung to its Master’s flesh – vibrating a discordant song of Adoration.  Even as it waited for the final push of Will that would disband it permanently.  End its existence.  Scatter it so thin, so far, it would never again know itself as Langon, Herald of Utumno and Speaker for Melkor.

Blue mist pulsed.  Coiled upon itself as, cringing in trepidation, it waited for the Unmaking that must come next.  But the psychic assaulted ended with the physical attack.

“Do better,” Melkor commanded coldly, “ worthless shit.”  He stirred the sentient cloud of disembodied spirit with his foot.  “ Pull yourself together.”

The Lesser Umaiar had retreated to corners, took refuge in cupboards or down the sink drain, during the Herald’s chastisement.  Still cowering, they sang a thin, silent Paean of Sympathy to their Master.

Except for the Vermin, who kept their flesh and stood ready to do their duty.  For they had long been Mairon’s.

Melkor returned to the counter.  Looked pointedly at the empty coffee mug.

Rat, again, filled it to the brim.

Melkor wiped His hand across His bare chest, smearing Langon’s blood in long streaks.  He noted Rat’s garish outfit.  “ Good, you’re dressed.  Don’t change.  After I shower, we’ll go shopping.”  The Master gave the blue vapor a baleful glance, “ And amend his dereliction.” 

Without care for the congealing puddle, He took his coffee back with Him to the bedroom.  Leaving sticky, red-gold footprints in His wake.

Rat clicked forlornly at the puddle, at the footprints.  Vole chewed thoughtfully on a raw hot dog as he, too, gloomily contemplated the mess.

In the corner, the blue mist gathered itself.  Tiny bolts of glittering electricity arced through it.  Organs cohered, blobs of red and brown, in its center.  The faint outline of a spine formed.

Rat sat down on the edge of the counter before she dropped to the floor.  Bare feet squelched as they hit.  She heaved a deep sigh.

The others emerged.  Several formed bodies and immediately fell upon the blood – ecstatically lapping it from the floor.  Some swirled over the mess absorbing molecules of plasma and iron.

In the master bedroom, the shower hissed to life.  Beneath the sound of water raining hard on ceramic, they heard Melkor begin a wordless, martial aria.

Rat suddenly brightened.  She turned to Vole and chittered.  He nodded.  As one, they discorporated and wended their way to the spare bedroom.  They assumed shape inside the closet beside the bags of hideous clothes.

Rat grabbed a top decorated with kittens and puppies.  She used it to wipe Langon’s blood off Vole’s feet.  He returned the favor with a pink and green flowered tunic.  Both garments still had their store tags.  In fact, most of them did.

Each gathered an armful of cloth and ran back down the hall.  Rat followed the Master’s footprints while Vole continued into the kitchen.

Melkor re-emerged with car keys in hand.  He found His Chorus of Little Ones ringed around Langon.  Watching the Herald reform, they consumed cookies and milk.

Langon was now a skeleton overlaid with muscle.  Reattaching tendons coiled over him like roots.  Forehead pressed to the floor, he again possessed vocal cords.  The Herald growled and groaned with the effort of such a speedy corporation.

All the blood mopped from the linoleum, Rat and Vole stuffed a heap of red-sodden children’s clothes into the kitchen trash. 

“ Ready?”  Melkor asked the Vermin.  They looked around.  Showed him red tinged hands.  “ Make haste, then.”

He drained the last inch of the coffee directly from the carafe and ate several cookies – three at a time – while they washed.

“ When I return,” to Langon, “ you best be exactly where I left you, Maia.  And fit for Purpose.”

The Herald moaned a wordless affirmative.

Leaving Langon to his audience, all three went out the kitchen door.

Save-A-Lot stayed open all night.  Even on Sunday.

They shopped.  Which is to say, Melkor parked His cart by the magazine rack, thumbing through pages that interested Him, while the Vermin ran here and there.  They deposited the foodstuffs they gathered into the waiting cart before darting back down the aisles.

“ Get **two** of those frozen cakes.”  Melkor occasionally lifted His face from the magazines with such commands.  And comments, “ We’re going to need more chicken nuggets than _that_.  You little bastards eat them like Urulóki eat elves.”

With the cart rounded high, they left.  Melkor did not bother with anything as petty as a checkout line.  And such was the power of his Glamour that the few mortals shopping at eleven on a Sunday night saw nothing.

Neither did the security cameras.

Rat, however, deeply missed plastic bags as they filled the trunk, and most of the back seat, with loose packages.  But, the huge pile meant the Vermin got to ride up front and both liked that.  Very Much!

Melkor grabbed one of the frozen cakes before he slammed down the trunk lid.  He thrust it into Vole’s hands.  “ I’m going to need that.”  As He settled in the driver’s seat.  The Vermin stood in the passenger’s side and delighted in the view out the windscreen.

Hence, they commanded an excellent perspective of the deserted industrial parking lot when Melkor pulled to a halt.  He shifted into park.

Turning in His seat, the Master said, “ Let’s see if you two are as clever as Mairon insisted.  Climb over here.”

He got out of the car.  As they scrambled over the console, He settled in the passenger seat.

He ripped open the cardboard cake box and summoned a beautifully forged table dagger from thin air.  Pointing with the knife tip, “ Steering wheel.  Transmission shift.  Left blinker, right blinker.  Brake.  Accelerator.” Information flowed from Lord to servants in a silent torrent of projected thought.  “ Got it?”

The Vermin nodded.

“ One of you must be down there to press the pedals.  The other needs to steer.  Work it out.”

Rat and Vole communed silently for a moment.  Then Vole slid down onto the car floor.  He braced his shoulders against the seat cushion before he tested the gas pedal and then the brake with both little feet.

Rat took the steering wheel in both hands.  Eyes alight, face avid, she turned to the Master.

Melkor looked at her grip, “ Good.  Ten and two allow for most accurate control.  It seems your master was correct and you are observant as well as clever.”  The unaccustomed praise sent a shivering thrill through both Umaiar.

Projecting information on how the transmission worked, Melkor cut a huge chunk of the cake.  Spearing it on the knife, He said, “ Left blinker.  Engage Drive.  Gently down on the accelerator.  Take us around the parking lot once.  Commence.”

Rat flicked back one of the little bars protruding from the steering column.  The windshield wipers whipped to life.  Rat hissed and flicked the bar again.  She shot an anxious glance at the Master.

“ I did that too, the first time I operated one of these things.”  Melkor muttered around a mouthful of frozen cake.  “ Keep that to yourselves.  Blinkers are up and down.  Wipers are back and forth.  Left blinker is up.  Try again.”

Rat got the little green light blinking on the correct side.  Grinned.

“ Now, engage the transmission.”  Melkor indicated the stick.

Rat shifted into Drive.

“ Go.”

Vole pressed the gas pedal.  The Bugatti Chiron crept forward.

 Three hours later, the outrageously expensive luxury sports car glided down the mansion’s long driveway.  It pulled smoothly between the open doors of the old carriage house that now acted as garage and shed.  It came to a gentle halt three feet from Melkor’s hand-built workbench.

The groceries in the back and trunk sat under a field of projected cold.  Melkor’s breath steamed as He turned in the passenger seat.  He flicked off the radio, which had been going at full volume, and the defroster.

A quarter of the cake remained in its box.  Melkor’s dagger stuck out the top.  He handed to box to the Vermin behind the driver’s wheel.

“ We’ll get something that’s not worth two and a half million pounds,” Melkor told Rat, “ for you to drive.  Stealing this one was fun, but damn - it draws attention to itself.  If Langon fails his duty again, you may take his car.  The stupid shit, he bought a fucking Fiat _Spider_.  Feel free to total it.”  Melkor murmured conspiratorially.  “ Speaking of my Herald, let’s go see if he’s grown skin.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I just finished editing this chapter today. I rewrote it about four times. Finally wrangled it into conveying what I wanted but I'm still not thrilled with it. Best I can say it, it does what it needs to.
> 
> Unfortunately, I've caught up with myself. I hope to be able to keep pace with one chapter a week from now on until I reach the point where my pre-written chapters come into play.
> 
> Slightly disgruntled, a mouse nestles into her shadowy mousehole and pulls out her plot point sheet to consider how best to move forward from here. 
> 
> With much love to each and every one of you! Wishing you Peace, and Joy! <3!


	15. Part 1: That’s Some Dysfunction You’ve Got There & Part 2: The Gang’s All Here

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1. Mairon is still at his childhood home. Ever his meticulous, duplicitous self: checking details while appearing to Do the Right Thing. We get Khadi's perspective for the first time and a hint of what it was like growing up with Mairon. And, to conclude, we see how Melkor's occupied Himself while He's been biding His time.
> 
> Part 2. Please note the change in Tags. Our main characters are finally assembled in Melkor's Domain. Langon's attitude has adjusted but he's nearly at the end of his rope, poor Herald. Thuringwethil is pleased to be reunited with an old comrade from Angband's glory days. Rat, too, is thrilled by the new addition to their Household. Vole...is not. Thankfully, this new addition has plenty of experience in being both a leader and a team-player.

June 11, 2018

**_Part 1: That’s Some Dysfunction You’ve Got There & Part 2: The Gang’s All Here_ **

 

**_Part 1: That’s Some Dysfunction You’ve Got There_ **

 

Mairon sat in his car.  One fingertip drummed the steering wheel.  Amber-brown eyes stared at the front doors to the local police station.

The stolen car that hit Darib had been recovered burnt out down by the river, they said.  Witnesses couldn’t provide a detailed enough description to make a positive ID, they said.  Little they could do, they said. 

Outwardly, his trip seemed a bust.  Complete waste of time.  He’d made the appropriate indignant noises before departing with a last, angry glance.  Just as an upset and uninvolved son should.

It  _seemed_  Mairon had wasted an hour standing at the front desk waiting for the duty sergeant to lift watery eyes from his computer screen.  But it was merely an excuse.  He’d really been studying the Information Wanted bulletin board.

No mention of a Missing Person case for Jeremy Hanson.  It was, however, only Monday.  Hanson had no immediate family to report his disappearance on Sunday.  His employees might just wait until the end of the week.

Have to put Zaekir on it after he left town.

Starting the car, he headed over to the open market.  Umi had told him there might be fresh, local lamb available this early in the week if he hit the right stall just at noon.  And she wanted him to pick up some properly aged Halloumi from her usual vendor.  He anticipated tasting the brined, salty cheese grilled with crushed mint…lunch, definitely lunch.

He’d just found a parking spot on the street when his phone rang.  “ Aulë, Aulë, Aulë,” it sang in his own voice.  Reaching out, he hit the answer button where the phone sat on its dashboard stand.

“ Good morning, sir.”

“ Mairon, lad, how many times do I have to tell you – don’t call me sir,” Aulë’s deep, cheerful voice blared out of the phone.  He must be on his cell.  He never shouted from his office phone.

“ We’re at one thousand, four hundred and seventy-two,” Mairon responded with a little smile, “ now.”

A long pause.  “ You’re a stubborn child.”  Then, “ Are you really counting?”

“ Would I do that, sir?”  Mairon asked, rhetorically.  They both knew.  The number was deadly accurate.

Aulë scoffed, loudly, before he continued, “ I wanted to let you know that Astaldo’s crew is having trouble acquiring their materials.  They won’t have the containment units ready until next week…they think.”

Mairon quickly calculated dates, “ It’s not a problem.  We finished early.  There are still seven weeks until launch…unless that’s been pushed back?”

“ Not that I know of,”

“ We have ample time to get the on-sight checks finalized.  But we’ll need to change our flight and hotel reservations.  Shall I track those for you, sir?”

“ No, no, I’ll have Megda,” his gorgon of a secretary, “track them.  But I thought I’d let you know – there’s no need to rush back.  You could stay the whole week.  I’m sure your folks would like to keep you longer.”

“ That’s very considerate, sir, thank you.”

“ How’s Darib?”

“ As well as can be expected.  Face like a prizefighter and in a sling for six weeks or so.  My sister’s taking some family leave – she and Umi will keep him on the straight and narrow.”

“ Good, good!  You need anything, just let me know, lad.”

“ Thank you again, sir.”  Then he remembered, “ How was the party?”

They spent a few more minutes in light chat.  Mairon had a half smile on his face as he entered the marketplace.

 

“ Damn, your brother’s  _hot_!  How tall  _is_  he?”  That loud whisper probably carried right to its subject.

“ Six feet six.” Khadi sighed.  A friend from work had brought her potted plant home.  She’d made a mistake inviting the other woman in. 

Tabby craned her neck to stare into the kitchen.  Her eyes lingered on Mairon’s long legs.  Again.

“ He’s gay.” Khadi said.  Flat and emotionless.  If only it were that simple.

“ No!”

“ My uncle calls him the family fire-lily.  Gay as they come.”

“ Too bad!”

And damn Roni for wearing an old pair of cut-off shorts and a tank top to crawl around on the kitchen floor as he tinkered with the dishwasher.  There were parts spread everywhere.  Tools in a neat line.  Everything organized by some "system" that ginger head.

“ Didn’t you tell me once that you were adopted? ”

“ Yep, adopted.  Both of us.”  She fiddled with the plant on the coffee table.  She didn’t feel like explaining the actual circumstances.

“ He doesn’t look Haradi.”

That annoyed Khadi.  She gave no response.  Unfortunately, Roni chose that moment to sit and then stand up.  He gave them a perfunctory nod to acknowledge their existence.

When Mairon had a problem to resolve or hardware to fix, everything around him became less than peripheral.

Tabby’s mouth fell open.  She unabashedly gaped as he consulted the owner’s manual and then his laptop.

“ Where are the hex keys?  They’re not in the toolbox.”  Mairon asked, face still in his computer screen.

“ No idea.” Khadi didn’t know what a hex key was.  “ You’ll have to see if Aba’s awake.  He’ll know.”

Roni growled under his breath.  Tabby’s face went bright pink.  She nearly fell off the couch.  She almost broke her neck so she could follow his progress down the hall.

Khadi stood up.  Forced a smile.  The other woman was so numbed out on horny, she didn’t notice.

“ Those eyes and that nose, he  _does_  look Haradi.”

Nothing about Roni’s sloe-shaped eyes or faintly hawkish nose were new to her.  And she had a damn good idea of what went on in his oh-so-clever, thoroughly twisted, mind.

He was a monster.  Completely uninterested in anyone he could not manipulate, or intimidate, or buy off.  Capable of irresistible charm when it suited him – though he’d deny it – Roni could talk himself out of almost anything.  Perhaps  _literally_  anything.  She’d seen it.

Khadi would never forget the look on his face that day.  Back when they’d been just kids.  Clinical.  She’d learned the word years later in nursing school.  Emotionless, cold, curious, completely unaffected by Rowan McCarty's screams of pain.  Clinical.

Roni had watched.  Stood by and  _observed_.  Waited to see what would happen next while the other kids recoiled, shrieked, and ran for help.

They’d told her Roni, unable to accept the results of his actions, had disassociated.  But she knew better.  In her mind’s eye, she saw again the little sideways tilt of his head.  The cold detachment in his eyes as he asked Rowan, “ How  _much_  does it hurt?”

No one ever dared to ask her on a date.  Not through middle school.  Not through high school.  Too afraid of what her older brother might do to them. 

Therapy couldn’t fix Roni’s kind of broken.

“ Thanks for bringing my violets,” Khadi offered a slightly crooked smile. “ I’ll let you get going, Tabby.  No need to hang around here on your day off.” 

Drooling over a man who could charm her one moment and the next break her so badly that splintered bones poked out her skin.  Without caring at all.

Khadi picked up Tabby’s purse, handed it to her, and moved to open the front door.  Leaving the other woman no choice.  “ I’ve got to check on my father now; he’s due for his afternoon meds.”

Because living with Roni, one learned how to lie.

Khadi waited for Mairon to come back downstairs.  She caught him at the top of the basement steps, “ Can I borrow your car?”  He turned to look at her with that distant, preoccupied light in his eyes.  “ Roni, can I borrow your car?  I need to pick up a couple of things.  I need some money.”

“ My keys and wallet are on the counter,” as he descended, “ take what you need.  Fill up the tank,” over his shoulder, “ while you’re out.”

“ Are you going to finish soon or should I get dinner?”

He paused at the bottom of the stairs and looked back, obviously barely seeing her. 

“ I need a couple of gaskets.  I’ll call the hardware store.  Pick them up for me.  And get dinner.  Something nice.”  He disappeared from view.

She scooped up his keys and wallet.  Opening the leather billfold, she found a thick layer of fifty and hundred pound notes.  Since she was thirteen and he sixteen, she could not remember a time when Roni didn’t have a stack of cash on hand.

She’d learned early – so long as she kept her mouth shut and did what he wanted when he wanted it, Mairon paid well for compliance. 

Khadi counted out five hundred pounds.  She’d get something nice, all right.  Nice and expensive.

 

The stratum began to tremble.  Reacting to the low, silent song of He who lay spread within.  Bedrock shifted.  Soil liquefied.  Rock, too.  Unstable ground resonated with a Force of Will long ago imbued in its very atoms.

Melkor, manifesting as shadow unseen, flowed within layers of shale, dirt, sand, and stone.  Reveling in His own residual energy.  He re-tuned its disharmony to match the subtly changed frequencies He now vibrated.  Making Himself again Master and Servant of all the land.

Arda, he ensured, would remain His to command and His to husband as long as its molecules cohered and its strata built upon itself with ever regenerating layers.

A sinkhole formed behind Him as He moved on.  Dirt and rock collapsed in with a soft, wet, slurping rumble.  A whole block of shops and their parking lot disappeared in an instant. 

Car alarms screamed until thin, oozing muck shorted their systems.  Light poles sparked as they tipped into the mire.  Electric lines arced live current into the mud, sending forth billows of acrid, ozone stink onto the afternoon air.

As an afterthought, Melkor spread a thin portion of Himself back to absorb the electricity.  He paid no heed to the clamor of emergency sirens or wails of the Second Born.

That which lived died.  Be it plant or animal, man or elf, earth or sky.  He had no more Ordained that than He’d Ordained His own Nature.  His rôle in this damned Symphony.

He would perform His ostinato to the best of His ability as He had before and would again while the Allfather’s Opus endlessly renewed itself.  But, in truth, He had become heartily sick of losing.  And fucking dying.

__

_**Part 2: The Gang’s All Here** _

 

The Lesser Umaiar stared at the plastic bag in Rat’s hand.  She lifted it high.  Eyestalks, inset eyes, sensor patches, all followed the package of marshmallows with laser-like intensity.

The she-Vermin chittered, clicked, and cheeped.  Behind her, Vole yawned and scratched idly at his behind.

Rat pointed at a pile of dust wands, polishing cloths, and hand brooms on the living room floor.

Shoving and pushing, the other Umaiar separated into two semi-distinct groups.  They jostled against each other.  Jabbed with elbows and poked with claw, paw, and pincer, as energy built within them.  Vibrated on the air.

Rat counted, “ Chirp, chirp, CHEEP!”  She stood back as they leapt forward to claim their weapon of choice.  The Swarm, armed with dust wand, cloth or broom, scattered throughout the flat.

Nodding to herself, Rat tucked the bag of marshmallows under her arm.  She gave Vole a hideous, fanged grin.

He opened his arms to her.  She stepped into his hug and returned it.  Planting a fond, chaste kiss on his cheek, she handed him the bag of sweets.  They conversed silently for a moment.  He nodded.  She nodded.

Rat scurried into the kitchen.  Vole pattered over to perch himself on the back of the comfy couch.  Supervising.  And preventing his siblings from becoming overenthusiastic as they dusted the Master’s musical instruments.  Broken strings or split reeds would NOT go over well.

As he sat squishing the marshmallows in the bag – for he was very bored – the large mirror in the room bowed itself outward.  Vole jumped into a squat, ready to shelter behind the couch, as the mirror went solid black.

Two great slanted eyes - composed completely of yellow flame - flickered open.

//  _ **I heard a rumor**_ ,// this contrabass voice crackled like a conflagration.  Undertones conveyed the thick bubble of Andesitic magma. 

Vole relaxed.  Making a sour face, he thrust out his little black tongue at the eyes.

//  _ **Don’t be that way**_.//

The Vermin chittered.

//  _ **Tell me, is it so?  Is it him?**_ //

Vole clicked and cheeped.

//  _ **I trust her to know.  Open the portal**_.//

Vole shook his head.  Gestured to indicate the siblings dusting and dry mopping.  He pointed into the kitchen and chattered.

//  _ **I can contain it.  I 'll not fash her.  We are comrades**_.//

Plumping the bag of marshmallows, Vole shook his head again: wrinkling his pointed nose at the great set of eyes.

//  _ **Open the Way, little brother.  I wish to see for myself.  I, too, have missed Mairon.  Long for the Order he brought.  And I can stand no more of Lungorthin.  He will not honour my Rank.**_ //

Vole became thoughtful.  He cheeped again.

//  _ **The Master did not forbid it.**_ //

Vole tucked the marshmallows under his arm and hopped down from the couch.  He approached the mirror, obviously undecided.  From the other side, there came a tumult of noise akin to a volcanic eruption.

Vole listened to the hissing, grating, explosive sound.  His lips twisted.  There were words, of a sort, in that infernal music.  The Vermin heard his kind, Lesser Umaiar of every variety, maligned in the most obscene terms.

//  _ **Bell-horned jackanape,**_ // muttered the deep contrabass voice.

Vole reached forth his free hand and laid his palm on the bowed glass.  It popped back into place.  The air in the flat crackled.  A low boom shook the mansion to its very foundation.

The Lesser Umaiar dropped their cleaning tools.  En masse, they converged in the front room.  In body or out of it, they gawked.  Sang, “ Ooooo,” in one voice.

A fine layer of soot whooshed up in the air.  In the depths of that particulate filled cloud, a sylphlike sprite took shape.

It glowed.  Rills of flame played under dark skin in continuously moving patterns.  As if fire had been contained in flesh.  Two wreaths of smoke hovered over its head, reminiscent of long, curved horns.  Its eyes were the same slanted, glowing yellow.

Vole pointed at the sooty cloud and erupted in an enraged chatter, “ CH, CH, CH!”

“  _ **Shh,**_ ” The sprite tried to whisper.  Unsuccessfully.  Its deep voice roared through the room.  But it sucked the sooty cloud into itself.

//  _ **KOSOMOT!**_ // Another set of gigantic, fiery eyes suddenly filled the mirror.  They lit the whole room with a pure white glow.  //  _ **You are not dismissed!**_ //  The mirror bowed out again.  Flickers of pale flame raced up the glass.  //  _ **I reclaim you.**_ // Arrogantly.

The sprite stomped black hooves on the wooden floor, “  _ **Fuck you, Lungorthin!  I, too, am a Captain of Melkor!  I do not answer to you!”**_

“ Gothmog, Gothmog, Gothmog,” The Lesser Umaiar chanted a ghostly whisper.

Rat emerged from the kitchen with a spatula in one hand and an empty chicken nugget bag in the other.  She screeched with joy, waving both spatula and bag wildly, and ran up to the Balrog Captain – cheeping and crooning at the same time.

“ Lungorthin, stay where you are.” Langon commanded from the hallway.  Since his chastisement, he’d occupied the spare bedroom.  Much subdued.

A new shadow swirled at the Herald’s back as Thuringwethil, too, came to see what had shaken the house.  The lamia took form then flung up both hands to protect her large nocturnal eyes from Lungorthin’s pure white blaze.  She cringed behind Langon, “ It burns!”  Hooked claws latched in Langon’s shirt.  ‘Wethil shook him, “ Make him go, make him go!”

Rat turned to the scorching mirror and emitted an ultrasonic shriek of information and rage.  Vole, also, spat out a supersonic burst.

“ Only those who assist in the Great Hunt are permitted to roam free,” Langon held up one hand.  For the first time in long Ages, he spoke with Voice of Purpose.  Deep, ringing like a bronze bell, and resonant with the Master’s Discord. 

Green eyes flared with cold power.  His skin and lips tinged cadaverous blue beneath a waving mane of black hair as he reverted to his true form.  “Return to where our Master placed you or I shall be forced to Report insubordination.”

“ You never served in Angband, you remained at Utumno,” Thuringwethil cried.  Her pale grey skin started to smoke.  She would soon ignite under the intensity of Lungorthin’s scorching radiance.  “ Go back, go back!”

“  _ **Go back, O arrogant gobermouch,**_ ” Gothmog added with crackling satisfaction.

“ If you burn down His dwelling, the Master will clip your horns and boil your hooves for glue,” Langon cast a cloud of arctic darkness.  Thuringwethil buried her fleshless face against his back and groaned in relief.  He could feel her fangs through the fabric.

//  _ **Our Lord shall hear of this!**_ // Lungorthin threatened.  Pale, glowing eyes narrowed in their pitch-black field.

Gothmog, unimpressed, snorted, “  _ **Sing to the magma.  It will care just as much.**_ ”

Lungorthin withdrew.  The tongues of white flame dwindled to mere sparks.  They disappeared.  The mirror flattened.  Its face settled into mundane reflection.

Langon muttered, “ Let’s hope the neighbors are at work.”  He glanced at Gothmog, “ You can’t walk around like  _that_ , Captain.  We’re forbidden to incite attention.”

Thuringwethil popped her head out around Langon’s shoulder, “ The Hunt is over, Captain -  we’ve finally found him!  We think.”

Chitter CLICK!  Rat exclaimed. 

“  _ **One of our number is confident.**_ ” Gothmog reached down to pat Rat’s slick, dark head.  A curved black claw tapped her pointy nose, “  _ **Hail, little seamstress, and well met.**_ ”

 Rat flung back her head and sang ecstatic.  The shrill, ululating sound made Langon and Thuringwethil wince.  Vole grumbled silently. 

The Lesser Umaiar took up the song.  Such fun!  And a good excuse to cavort about the front room in various states of corporality.

One of them stopped before Vole and poked the bag of marshmallows.  Vole hissed.  Pointed at the discarded rags, dusters, and brooms.  In response, the other Umaia took up a duster and, waving it like a parade baton, resumed cavorting.

Vole’s little chin sunk onto his chest.  His shoulders slumped.

“ You’d better fashion yourself a mortal mien, Captain.” Langon half turned and took Thuringwethil’s waist in his arm.  “ Sister, are you quite well?”

The lamia smoothed fine strands of black hair over her bat-like skull.  She lifted her fanged, fleshless face, “ Better now.  Thank you, brother.”  With a low vibration of energy, both reformed human flesh.

“ You have to look like this, Captain.” Langon said, “ Or back you must go.”

“  _ **I am NOT going back.**_ ” Gothmog exclaimed.  “  _ **I’ll camp in the blast furnace before I submit to Lungorthin’s Rule.**_ ”

“ No blast furnace here.” Langon pinched the bridge of his nose, “ You  _must_  walk as a mortal man.”

“ Your fire is too great for the furnace.  You’d destroy it.” Thuringwethil said simultaneously.  “ Langon, what can we  _do_  with him?”

Rat stopped singing.  Holding up her spatula, she gave a loud, sweet chirp.  Then she thrust both spatula and empty bag at Vole.  Expression sour, he took them.  As Rat darted from the room, Vole rolled his eyes to himself.

“ Ooo, Vermin complications,” Thuringwethil whispered under her breath.  She giggled to Langon, “ Long has this provided me many a chuckle.”  The vampire took a step towards Vole, “ You find yourself armed,” She pointed at the spatula,   “ Have a go at the Captain.  Flip him into submission.”  With a smirk.

“ You’re not helping.” Langon growled.

Gothmog ignored her.  “  _ **Peace, little page**_ ,” He tried to murmur to Vole, but there was no hope of it.  Not with his deep, booming voice.

Vole glared at ‘Wethil.  He ripped open the bag of marshmallows and, pulling one out, offered it to the Captain.

The other Little Ones stopped their wild dance to converge around Vole and the open bag.  Hands, paws, or pincers thrust forward.  They clicked, snicked, and chittered.

Vole bared his teeth at them.  He speared the marshmallow on one of Gothmog’s claw tips as the Balrog Captain reached out – with some confusion – for the small white confection.  Gothmog lifted it up to look at it.

“  _ **What’s this?**_ ”  As he spoke, his breath caused the marshmallow to light with a quick yellow flame.  Langon exclaimed in frustration.  He took two quick steps forward and blew it out.

The Lesser Umaiar complained unhappily for a moment, then stopped as the smell of caramelized sugar hit their various noses and olfactory appendages.  Their attention riveted on the charred, puffy lump. 

A buzzing hum went through the Swarm.

“ Don’t burn down the fucking house!” the Herald railed, “ The Master will be enraged!  His own hands, His very own hands, restored this place from top to bottom!  It was a  _mess_  when we bought it.”

Rat returned from the depths of the flat with a pile of glossy magazines.  Trailing whole segments behind her, she hunted through the pages.  She found what she wanted and held a photo up for Gothmog to see.

A human male with popping musculature, clad in a mere scrap of cloth, glistened under bright lights.  Undercut hair pulled back in a tight topknot.  Beside him stood some sort of torture device consisting of bars, pulleys, and a sturdy metal frame.

Rat chirruped.

The Little Ones inched closer towards the Captain.

“ Oh, prime prey!” Thuringwethil exclaimed, leaning down to get a good look.  She tried to take the magazine, “ He’s almost as big as the Master!  I’d read his cards for nothing, and have such a feast!”

Rat, jerking the magazine away, bared many needle-like fangs at the vampire.

A bold sibling spread iridescent wings.  It snapped forward, translucent membranes fluttering, to snatch the toasted marshmallow into its mandibles and maxilla.  Then it fell to the floor in an ecstasy.  Pincers came up to stuff the treat in faster.

Langon gave up.  He turned back to the spare bedroom, muttering, “ How did Mairon do it?  How did he…smite me, smite me to atoms, I’ll never…”

“  _ **Ho, now, little one,**_ ” Gothmog scolded, “  _ **That’s not how we do things.  Surely, sister Rat showed you, all of you, the Lieutenant’s Way.  Fall into ranks.  Form a line,”**_  He held out a hand to Vole, “  _ **Load me up, little brother, and we’ll teach them.  One at a time now,**_ ” As Vole speared marshmallows on the Captain’s six claws, “  _ **Herald, stand ready to blow them out.**_ ”

Thuringwethil cast a last, longing glance at the glossy magazine, “ Yes, Captain,” She responded automatically.

“  _ **When we’re done, I’ll squash myself into such tiny flesh,**_ ” Gothmog used the words to light the marshmallows one by one. 

Thuringwethil hurried to blow each out.

“  _ **What would please your eye best, sister?  Black hair like the Master?  Red like Mairon preferred most of the time?  Brown such as Langon now sports? White as ice?**_ ”  Gothmog gave Rat a quick wink of one flaming eye while Thuringwethil was preoccupied.

Rat gathered the magazines up into her arms.  Sidling up beside Vole, she knocked her shoulder into his.  Gave him a grin and a kiss on the cheek.  Rat projected her admiration at how clever he’d been to stick a marshmallow on the Balrog’s claw.

Vole preened.  Grinned back.  Then became very serious as he again loaded up Gothmog’s claws with a fresh set.

“  _ **So, what exactly are they doing?**_ ” the Captain asked Thuringwethil as he watched the Little Ones cram toasted marshmallows into their faces.

“ Eating.”  The vampire responded, “ Oh,” in realization, “ If you’re going to occupy flesh for any length of time, you’d better know about eating, Captain.”

“  _ **Ah, like Yrch.**_ ”  Gothmog said, then, “  _ **No, no, no.  No pushing, no shoving, no cutting the line.  Each in turn.  Discipline, little ones, discipline.**_    _ **The Vermin must have theirs too.  And the Heralds,**_ ”

Rat and Vole each claimed a toasted marshmallow.  They both let off an amazed vibration as they ate.  It was so much better this way!

“ I don’t eat food,” Thuringwethil laughed, “ I drink blood, Captain.  And sip flickers of the Flame Imperishable from mortal souls.  Though, Langon needs to eat…  Brother, would you take a toasted thingy?  The Little Ones quite like them.”  She called down the hallway.  “ They like pizza, too.” Conversationally to Gothmog.  “ And something called a chicken nougat.”

Rat and Vole cheeped as one.

“ Nugget.” Thuringwethil corrected.  “ Chicken nugget.”

Rat grimaced and gathered back the spatula and empty plastic bag from under Vole’s arm.  She gave a little “skree” that had two siblings rushing over to open windows and let toasted marshmallow smell out of the flat.

Clutching the mess of magazines, bag, and utensil, Rat scurried back to the kitchen where the oven had finished preheating.  And the chicken nuggets, waiting on a cookie sheet, had half thawed. 

Langon re-emerged now.  Washed, brushed, and looking handsome in good slacks and a blazer.  In the process of knotting a stylish tie.

He assessed the situation: Vole spearing the last couple of marshmallows onto Gothmog’s claws; a dwindling line of Lesser Ones patiently waiting; Thuringwethil with a smile on her face; the sound of the kitchen timer beeping as Rat set it. 

“ I’m heading out - I have an appointment to show a house,”

“  _ **Show it what?**_ ” Gothmog asked.

“ ‘Wethil will explain.” Langon half smiled.  “ I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“  _ **Where is the Master?**_ ”

“ Haven’t seen Him since Monday.  Do we need anything?” Langon called into the kitchen.

Rat appeared in the doorway.  Stared at Langon in outright surprise before she cheeped.

“ Whole milk?  One gallon or two?”

Chirping, she held up two fingers.

“ Two gallons of whole milk it is.” Langon added, “ See – I’m trying.  Tell Him that when He returns.  I  _am_  trying.”

Rat and Vole nodded.

“ Briefcase in the car.” Langon ticked through mortal details, “ Keys and wallet.”  He patted his side pocket.  Touched his breast pocket and pointed at Rat, “ I have my mobile if you think of anything else.  ‘Wethil can ring me.”  Because little Umaiar voices made a phone squeal like a troll in a lava pit.  “ And I’ll grab something sweet when I get milk.  Pastry or cookies,”

“ COOKIES!” caroled the Lesser Umaiar.

“ Or something, for pudding tonight.”  Langon headed for the pocket doors.  Over his shoulder, “ I’m thinking handyman for the Captain.  He can have the carriage house flat – because the Master won’t have anyone in His, and you have clients, ‘Wethil.”

“ No offense, Captain, but you would be bad for business.” Thuringwethil sighed.  “ And none of us are allowed in Lord Mairon’s flat under threat of pain.  Very great pain.”

“ _ **Where IS Mairon?”**_

Langon stopped in the act of sliding open the door.  The Lesser Umaiar twitched.  Thuringwethil outright flinched. 

All turned to stare at Rat where she stood in the kitchen doorway.

The Vermin’s little black lips curled down.  She lifted one hand and spread her fingers wide in a flourish.  Her head sank low, and, draping her arm over it in an attitude of grief, she crept back into the kitchen.

Vole whistled softly.

“  _ **Disappeared?  Then he’s solving a problem.**_ ” Gothmog pronounced with total confidence.  “  _ **Our Lieutenant never leaves one to resolve itself.**_ ”  He turned to Thuringwethil, “  _ **Now, demonstrate again how you assume mortal flesh.  Slowly – for I have never before had the need.**_ ”

“ Red hair, Captain, I have chosen red hair, if you please.”  Thuringwethil sang, “ Now, observe well, for the first time is ever the hardest!”

Langon slid the door closed as he left.

The Lesser Umaiar abandoned the shape-shifting lesson.  They understood the process and it was much less interesting than the smell of chicken nuggets beginning to waft from the kitchen. 

As Vole trailed behind the Swarm, a thought from the Balrog across the room hit his head with the intensity of a fire-whip in full swing.  The Vermin stumbled under the strength of it.

 _A_ _fter our Herald is settled – private conference._

Vole glanced back over one shoulder.  He resisted an urge to lift his middle finger at the Captain in the Universal Gesture of Ill-Will.  Barely.  Because it wasn’t often an Umaia of his low Rank was called to hobnob with the Superior spirits.

Vole nodded.

As he turned, he saw a sibling hovering in the kitchen doorway.  It made a furtive summoning gesture with its wicked little pincer.

In the kitchen proper, Vole found Rat standing in front of the refrigerator banging her forehead repeatedly against the white metal door.  Spatula still in hand.

Vole went to her, took her shoulders, and pulled her away from the fridge.  He gave her a little shake.  Clearly “ Get hold of yourself."  Then he tucked her into his side.  He leaned his forehead against her temple and gave her pasty cheek a gentle lick.

Their siblings converged around them: crouching on or floating over the shiny linoleum floor.  Projected thoughts made all the metal in the room hum.

The Master commanded Faith and Patience.  So it must be.  For was He not the most powerful and the most Gifted?  Was His Song not the most Unique? 

One of them stuck out a paw to offer a token – a mish-mash of child’s meal toys pulled apart and reassembled into a multi-armed, two-headed, plastic monster.

Vole frowned.  Rat, however, took it.  Turning it over in her hand, she noted how the plastic had been cleanly sheered and melted back together almost without seam.  Very solemn, Rat tucked it into the top of her ragged tunic.  All six hands and both faces forward, of course.

This thrilled the gift-giver so much it lost hold of its flesh and became a little black cyclone whirring half a foot above the linoleum.  Rat smiled, which made Vole smile, and that, in turn, filled the entire Swarm with good humour. 

One of the incorporeal ones pushed the apple-shaped timer off the counter.  A sibling on the floor caught it and carried it to Vole.  He read the numbers as they ticked away.

“ Six minutes,” he hissed, holding up his hand with all fingers spread. 

Rat nodded.  She chittered.  Three siblings raced into the pantry and returned.  One held a big bottle of golden sweet and sour sauce.  Another carried an unopened jar of mustard.  The third proffered its fresh roll of paper towels.  Vole took the towels, ripped them open, and started passing sheets around.

The Umaiar Swarm settled contentedly on the kitchen floor to wait for lunch.

 

Langon found them there - rolling finger bones for old pennies - when he returned four hours later.  

He hurried through the main room where the Captain and Thuringwethil were still struggling to fit Gothmog’s immense molecular presence into such small flesh.  The Balrog now looked like a human made of melted wax.  A mane of short, spiky red hair ran the length of his spine.

Langon slammed two gallons of milk on the kitchen table.  Dropping a brown paper bag beside them, he turned to the Swarm.

“ Ey, you Vermin, you must see this!”  He waded amid the lesser demons and scooped up Rat. 

Oh, how she screeched with outrage!  Vole leapt to his feet, erupting “ CH CH CH!”  The Swarm, bristling in response, let off puffs of black smoke.

“ No, no, no,” Langon told them, “ Good thing, good thing!  A very good thing!”  He stepped over various little monsters and headed for the doors.

They followed out onto the landing and down two wide flights of stairs.

There in the vestibule, just inside the front doors, stood two tall, narrow, rectangular cardboard boxes.

“ They were on the porch,” Langon informed them, “ I dragged them in – they’re heavy.” He pointed.  Each box had a picture on its side.  “ Look! Mattresses!  For beds.  To sleep on.  Like in the Master’s bedroom - though He only reads on His.  And this,  _this_ ,” 

Langon tapped each label in turn: obviously unaware that both Rat and Vole could read.  Very well, at that.  The Vermin were unimpressed.

Until, “ Dr. Mairon Smith, 969B Hobbs Hill, Little Smelting,” Langon traced the lines of text, reading them aloud twice.  “ Ha!”

Rat scurried forward and sniffed, with excitement, at the box seams.  Then she fell back.  Scowling.  They didn’t smell like her master at all.  She turned that scowl on the Herald.

As Langon erupted, “ Arrrg! Is there  _no_  pleasing you?”  One of their discorporate siblings wafted into the cardboard.

From inside the box came the sudden sound of rippling plastic.  The Lesser Umaia popped through the top.  Assembling flesh, it crouched on the cardboard with a piece of paper protruding from its mouth.  It spat the label at Langon.

The Herald plucked it out of the air.  “ DO NOT REMOVE.”  He read aloud.  He muttered, “ Fantastic.  I need a drink.”

One of the Swarm rattled and snicked in response.

“ Not milk!” Langon turned and stalked back up the stairs, “ NOT milk!”  Halfway, he stopped and looked down.  Waved the tag, “ He’s going to be looking for this…it’s  _ **MAIRON**_!”

 “  ** _Where?_** ”  Gothmog demanded from the landing above.

Langon jerked around.  He stared at the Captain for a moment.  Face level with what should have been two feet.  “ Humans don’t have  _hooves_!”

“  _ **‘Tis a matter of balance**_ ,” Gothmog responded, “ _**harder than it looks**_.”  He clopped to the edge of the landing. “  _ **Where is Mairon?**_ ”

Rat skreed.  She discorporated and traveled through the second box to re-emerge with the DO NOT REMOVE label from the other mattress.  Without taking flesh, her little shadow darted up the stairs.  Pausing only a moment to whip the first label from Langon’s hand, she continued on her way.  Both pieces of paper swirled within her.

After a moment, Vole and the rest of the Swarm followed – incorporeal – in a bubbling tumult of dark energy.  The pocket door to Melkor’s flat slammed shut behind them.

Langon continued up the steps.  His footfalls heavy.  Weary.  On his way past the Captain, he muttered, “ I just want to sing the Master’s symphony again.  It’s my Purpose.  I’m  _ **good**_  at it.”

“  _ **No Mairon, then?**_ ”  Gothmog turned to follow the Herald up the second flight of stairs.  His hoof falls echoed loudly off the hand-carved, black walnut panels.

“ Not today.”  Langon sounded thoroughly dispirited.  “ Maybe tomorrow.”  He looked over the Captain’s latest attempt at shapeshifting, “ You’re getting there.” With a lopsided smile.

“  _ **I am, Herald, I am.  Be of stout heart, old comrade. All will fall into its proper place.**_ ”

Langon muttered, “ I hope so.”  He looked over Gothmog as he slid open Melkor’s door.  Standing back to let the Captain precede him, the Herald said, “ First, we’ll work on the feet and then we’ll do something about that voice.”

“  _ **My voice?  What’s amiss with my voice?**_ ”

 “ Humans  _don’t_  sound like walking volcanoes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If your History says this story's been edited but you haven't seen differences - unless, of course, you're a mouse's Darling Morgause1 (a mouse saw that IM, Morgause, and it helped a lot! <3!!<3!!<3!!) - the explanation is that the mouse INTENDED to update on Sunday the 10th but she found Marions (as opposed to Mairons) in her drafts and had a fit of OCD insanity. A mouse is coming to hate the name Marion - which is a perfectly good name but AutoCorrect keeps lobbing it into new Chapters. Shakes a tiny fist at AutoCorrect - A whole day wasted and It's All YOUR Fault! A Balrog take you, AutoCorrect!
> 
> Now, on to the important bit:
> 
> Darn it, mouse - where the bleep have you been? There's a play, you see. A mouse is not in the play but she's been building set flats, creating and organizing props, and acting as dramatic coach to an amateur, senior cast. In addition to that, the mouse took on an editing/proofreading job for a local amateur author. And she's started the intimidating task of learning to write code. Starting with HTML, CSS, and Javascript.
> 
> So despite having this very full plate - which has resulted in a few missing whiskers and patches of fur - a mouse has been sneaking time to both write and edit the latest chapters to this story. Not fast enough for you Gentle Readers, a mouse is sure. She humbly begs your pardon for making you wait!
> 
> The play performs on Saturday the 16th of June. That will free up a great deal of a mouse's of time and energy until July when she heads back to the east coast (USA) for the summer. Hopefully, she can manage to get at least one more chapter written and maybe even edited before she goes.
> 
> Please enjoy these two newest chapters. And keep up your writing or your art or your daydreaming! Take all a mouse's love with you out into the Big World! <3 from <3~~ A mouse will answer any comments you choose to leave as soon as she possibly can after this theatrical insanity concludes. Peace and prosperity to you, the Most Wonderful Fandom ever to grace the internet!


	16. Home At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And finally, FINALLY, Mairon is back where he belongs. Home at last! The denizens of Melkor's restored Queen Adûnaphel mansion are abuzz! But the Master, Himself, has been absent since last Monday and unexpected complications are arising.
> 
> Much to Thuringwethil's distress, it seems Marion wants nothing to do with her. Kosomot, at least, has found an opening in Marion's defenses thanks to an accidental acquaintance. Rat, on the verge of perfect satisfaction, experiences yet another unpleasant revelation. Marion's foster-mother, it seems, is a blip in the lives of many little Umaiar.
> 
> Melkor - with a sewing machine under one arm - returns just in time.

June 11, 2018

 

**_Home At Last_ **

 

“ It’s beautiful!”  Faroula exclaimed.  “ Old houses, they have such character!”

Mairon slowed his Audi to a crawl.  They crept past the front of the mansion so she could absorb every aspect of the deep, wide porch, the peaked gables, and that wonderful three-story turret.

“ All the original wood.”  He said as if he’d had something to do with the restoration.  Turning down the long, narrow drive, Mairon eased the car to a halt before the carriage house.

He popped out, enthusiasm barely contained in the face of Faroula’s pleasure, and hurried around to open her door.

“ The luggage can wait,” he insisted. “ Let me show you everything!”

“ Ah, Rhonee, it’s a beautiful yard!  The trees, the stonewall, so much green!”  Faroula looked around.  “ So much space!  So quiet!  This will be a good place for you!  I know it, I feel it!”  She paced back two steps for a better view of the wide old windows, and the exterior staircase zigzagging its way up all three levels.  She pointed at the steps.

" No, no, we have to go in the front, Umi, you won’t believe the main staircase.  And the panels in the hallway - they’re black walnut. They’re perfect!  You have to see the whole effect!”  He led her back up the driveway as he dug out his new keys.  Both sets.  He gave her one.

They paused on the front walk.  Her delighted eyes roamed.  The old woman brimmed with interest and energy as if they hadn’t just come off a six-hour drive starting at five this morning.

“ No hotel,” she told him.  Faroula pointed at the bench swing suspended at one end of the long, deep porch. “ Lovely!  Perfect for cold mint tea in the afternoons. No, no hotel!  Why waste the money, my child?”

“ Umi, the furniture won’t arrive until tomorrow.”  Mairon protested.

“ Bah! We sleep on the floor. Like true Haradi nomads,” She squeezed his arm and laughed, “ Nomads with windows.”

Mairon ascended onto the shaded porch. He checked the mailbox with his number on it and unlocked the front doors.  Flung them wide so his mother would get a "grand entrance".

Doing this, he did not notice Faroula’s face jerk from one window to another.  The old woman shaded her eyes and peered harder.  Craned her neck.

A dark silhouette.  She’d seen a dark, child-sized silhouette.

 “ How old is this house?”  Faroula called to Mairon.  Bringing him back to the top of the steps.

Eyes riveted, she watched a pale lace curtain twitch to one side then back into place.  In an empty window.

“ I think it’s about three hundred years old, Umi, maybe three hundred and fifty.”  Mairon came to Faroula’s side.  “ I’d have to look it up.”

“ Old houses.”  Faroula murmured to herself.  She said, cautiously, to the younger man, “ Old houses have old inhabitants, my son.”

“ I haven’t met upstairs yet, but the woman in flat A can’t be over thirty-five,” Mairon started, then stopped as he realized what Faroula meant. “Umumi.”

“ Do not ‘mother’ me, child.”  Faroula scolded, “ There is more in heaven and earth than your numbers can measure.  Passion is power, and power remains.”

“ I’ll book you that hotel,” Mairon went into his breast pocket for his phone.

" You will not.”  Faroula contradicted.  “ I stay with you.”

“ Umi,”

She strode past him up the stairs and through the wide-flung front doors.  Pausing in the entry, Faroula looked around.  All that Mairon had promised was here: the carved wooden panels, the wide, grand staircase with its delicate balusters, and a crystal chandelier suspended from a high, vaulted ceiling.

“ Beautiful.”  Faroula pronounced again.

The house wallowed in its long-outdated style.  Elegant.  Spacious.  Dark and poised.  The old woman nodded to herself.  Many memories lodged within these walls.  Things unseen _must_ move among the current, living inhabitants.

Such a pity the boy turned his face from them.

She turned to her foster-son and said, “ On we go.”  Faroula ascended to the second level.  The wooden banister slid like cool silk under her palm.

A pair of cardboard boxes waited on the landing.  They stopped to check labels and found the mattresses Mairon expected to arrive tomorrow.

He unlocked the pocket doors to his flat and they entered. Mairon gave her a tour before walking the heavy boxes into his front room.

“ At least we won’t be sleeping on the floor,”  he noted, “ your wish is granted – no hotel.”

“ Go get the groceries,” Faroula told him.  They’d stopped on their way through the village to pick up a simple selection.  “I’ll unpack them while you bring up the bags.”

“ Yes, Umi.”  Mairon, all business now, went without resentment.

Faroula walked the rooms again without Mairon’s skeptical eyes following her.

The old woman checked the back of every closet.  She even rapped on walls.  Peered into dark corners.  Spent a long moment in the pantry assessing the feel of the narrow, shelved room.  A strong sense of energy vibrated in the enclosed space.  Perplexed, she moved back into the main room and stationed herself at the window to watch Mairon unload his car.

 

 

Rat woke in the darkest part of the cellar; well shielded from the sun and deep inside a nest of limb bones, tattered rags, and eagle feathers.  Vole curled in a ball around her.  He started to snore.

Rat’s head was tucked against his belly.  Preternatural ears suffered the full effect.  She pulled herself off him and leaned over his face.  For a moment, Rat considered pinching closed his pointy little nose.  He’d roll over, and stop.  But he’d been particularly helpful of late, and he was always warm and comfy.

Let him sleep.  She crept from their nest.

On all fours, she stretched out a left leg and right arm.  Then alternate limbs.  Rat crawled forward to extend her spine.  Shifting into rodent form, she took advantage of tiny claws as she scratched her chin, with a hind paw, and then her belly with both forepaws.

After scrubbing her pointed ears, Rat dissolved into a fine, dark mist.  Wending her way over the cement floor, she slipped into a heating duct and floated through the walls.

The Master hadn’t returned for several days.  Langon had removed to his daily lair and the lamia on the ground floor occupied herself between her clients and instructing the Captain on mortal ways.

Life had become very dull for every small Umaiar in the house.

The Swarm rested, quiescent, in small niches under cupboards, betwixt the walls, or as shapeless shadows.  Unless it was meal time or there was something fun on TV.

Rat drifted through the Master’s front parlor without bothering to assemble flesh.  A dull thud drew her to a side window.  Hovering before it, her energy fluttered the curtains as she observed the long, private yard below.

An automobile stood on the driveway but there was no operator in sight.  Rat’s finely tuned senses picked up the dull murmur of conversation from the front of the house.  She darted for the windows that looked down on the street.

And there he was!  Her Lieutenant!  His dark auburn hair glowed like a banked fire in the morning sun.  Beautiful to behold!  Even in those drab, horrendous clothes.

Ecstatic, Rat didn’t notice the human female standing at Lord Mairon’s side.  She watched her master move up the walk.  He disappeared from view as he mounted the front steps.

The small, amorphous cloud whirred in rapturous dance.  Flit about the front room.  Passed through furniture and musical instruments as if they did not exist.  Rat paused at the side window when she realized her lord had returned to his car.  Avid and intent, she watched him open and unload the trunk.

 

 

Thuringwethil harkened to the sound of voices in the hall outside her flat.  She had the Tarot spread in a Tree of Life before her morning client.  Footfalls on the stairs had her eyes flickering repeatedly to her closed doors.

 

 

Gothmog, Captain of Melkor and commander of His Legions, stared out the carriage house window; hoping that he looked upon Mairon.  The close comrade he’d known as an equal.  As a friend.

He hesitated, wondering if he’d mastered his human disguise well enough to chance an engagement.

The man below wrestled two large cardboard boxes from his car trunk.  He lowered them to the driveway.  That decided the Captain. He turned from the window.

 

 

Thuringwethil hurried her reading.  And her meal.  Absorbing energy from a human was much more delicate than drinking its blood.  It required an emotional connection. The Tarot provided a perfect conduit: instilling curiosity, apprehension, and hope.  So many emotions of intense strength…

 

 

“ Need a hand?”

This basso-profundo voice startled Mairon.  He jerked out of the Audi trunk, head whipping around, to see who spoke.  Instincts in defense mode, he took a step back and studied the speaker.

An utter giant stood inside the carriage house doors.  The most gigantic, most ginger man Mairon had ever seen.  Positively huge.  Impossibly redheaded.  A tentative, half-smile curved a planed face.

“ Hello?”  Mairon asked in dull shock.

“ Hello.”

A medium-sized brown dog pranced out of the carriage house.  Tail aloft, whipping back and forth with obvious enthusiasm, it rounded the man’s long legs to approach Mairon.  It sniffed his shoes then grinned up at him.

“ Well, hello, beautiful.” Mairon crooned.  He gave the dog his fist to sniff.  With this propriety fulfilled, he rubbed both pointed, perky ears with an equal – thought gentle – enthusiasm.

The dog drove its head hard into Mairon’s palm.  The panting grin widened.

Mairon crouched.  He ran both hands over the animal’s soft, white-vested torso and brown shoulders.  “ Beautiful puppy,”  A quick glance under that furry belly told him this was a female. “ Pretty girl.  What’s your name?”

“ Uhhhh, Dog.”  The huge man responded.

“ I was told no pets,”  Mairon grumbled.  He shot an envious glance up at the big man.  “ Dog?  What kind of name is that?”

“ I found it wandering the street after last night’s thunderstorm.  It followed me home.”

Realization hit.  “ Oh, little girl lost,”  Mairon hugged her.  She tolerated the brief contact.  A speedy release, however, pleased her.  She pranced around him.  “ Dr. Mairon Smith,”  He introduced himself as he rose to his feet.  He extended his hand.

The ginormous redhead stared at Mairon’s hand for a blank second.  Then a beatific smile curved his sharp features.  He reached out to encompass Mairon’s wrist with massive fingers.

“ Well met!”  The giant boomed.

 Mairon’s hand twisted to take the other man’s wrist – politely returning the antiquated gesture.

“ Uhhh, yes.  Thank you.”  Mairon hid his amusement.  After several long seconds, he prompted,   “ And you are?”

This enormous man seemed…socially awkward to say the least: Arda’s biggest, strangest nerd.

“ Kosomot.”

Only the one name?  That clinched Mairon’s opinion: Super Giant Geek.  Probably a professional gamer or some such media techie.

The little brown bitch, who’d been padding around their legs all this time, pointed on the house.  She barked.

Both men looked up.  Faroula stood on the second story landing: Mairon’s kitchen door open behind her.  The old Haradi woman smiled down on them.

“ Rhonee, I see you make new friends,” she called.

“ My mother,” Mairon gestured, “ Faroula Tesazdi.”

The ginger giant stared at her.  Then he raised his deep voice, “ Kosomot, my lady, at your service.”

Faroula descended.  The dog ran to smell her.

“ And Lost Dog.”  Mairon added with deadpan humour.

“ How do you do, Mr. Kosomot,” Faroula offered her hand and got the same wrist clasp.  It delighted her, as did the giant’s old-fashioned manners.

“ Just Kosomot.”  The gigantic nerd corrected with a smile.

She looked at the boxes on the pavement, “ Not the groceries.”  She patted the dog.

 “ I’m unloading, Umi,” Mairon stifled a sigh “ to take things up in stages.”

" My son, he has his systems,” she commented to the huge nerd.  “ Give me the groceries.  I take them up.  You left your refrigerator on all this time - nothing in it but a tub of yogurt.”  She scolded before dipping into the back seat for the groceries.

“ I thought I’d be back sooner.”  Mairon protested, “ Imagine how that yogurt would stink if I hadn’t.  At least you don’t have to wait for the fridge to chill before you put away the sandwich meat.”

“ True.”  Once she had the groceries, she strode for the stairs.  As she started up, Faroula said, “ Perhaps “Just Kosomot” helps you, child.  You make him dinner in thanks.  My son,” she paused on the fourth step, “ is a good cook.  He makes delicious roast lamb.”

“ I have never tasted lamb.”

Mairon looked at the huge geek without surprise.  “ It’s an acquired taste.  Like goat.  You don’t have to,”

“ I offered.”  Another big smile, “ It would please me.  I just moved in myself.  I know only Dog and Miz Terese.”

“ The woman with the cards.”  Mairon had put her completely from his thoughts.  For a moment, the concept of Faroula meeting up with the Card Lady twitched across his mind.  He gave an internal wince.

“ Indeed, that is she.”  The giant bent his knees and scooped up one of the cardboard boxes.  He told the dog, “ Wait here, little one.  I will return.”

The dog sat.  Tongue lolling, she looked around.

‘ Just Kosomot’ started up the steps with his burden.  Lightly.  Easily.  Humming.

Mairon grabbed both his overnight and suit bags.  Then he stopped.  He laid the long suit bag half in the trunk.  A strong scent wafted up from his shoulder bag. Unzipping it, he rummaged through his toiletries and rolled casual clothes.

Damn Zaekir.  His cousin had helped him pack the car this morning.  Obviously, Zaekir had stuffed some truly odoriferous weed in Mairon’s bag before it went in the trunk.

Everything stank.

Mairon found a zip-top tucked into another zip-top.  And still, it stank.  He didn’t pull it out.  There had to be a full ounce of best quality weed here.  And something else he couldn’t identify without opening the zip-tops.

Mairon cursed under his breath.  But he smiled.

First, he needed laundry detergent.  All these clothes _must_ have a wash.  Second, he needed to get his hands on some rolling papers.  Or a pipe.  Or, better yet, a small bong. Now that he had his own place again, he could do as he liked.

Well…once Faroula had her new car.

He tossed his suit bag over one shoulder, maneuvered a small box under his free arm, and headed for the stairs.

Over the next hour, Mairon decided that “Just Kosomot” was a likable giant geek.  He seemed to understand Mairon’s system and checked labels before depositing each box in its correct stack.

The prospect of making dinner for the big man became more and more appealing.  And not just in thanks.  It’d been a long time since he had anyone to simply…hang with.  He’d never made any effort to replace childhood friends after he’d moved north.

Now that he had the last of his possessions from his parent’s house, he felt that this flat, this village, was home.  And home meant time for a friend or two.  Company, conversation, and a Sunday afternoon meal.

“ Shall I aid you in freeing these mattresses from their boxes?”

Mairon turned.  A charming smile lit his face.  One of his rare, unfeigned, smiles.

“ I’d appreciate that.  They’re heavy.”  He thought of the blanket pallet he’d left on his bedroom floor.  “ Just let me tidy up.”

 

 

Thuringwethil escorted her client – an elderly widow of considerable means who paid well to ‘consult’ with the spirit of her dead husband – to the front doors.  A tender smile, a kind word, and this old woman’s weak energy spiked enough for a snack.

Old ladies like this one may not feed her well, but they provided hefty payments

‘Wethil, after all, liked silk dresses.  And shoes.  Well-made high heels.  Tall, black leather boots with straps and shiny buckles that complimented her long legs.  Pretty little flats for walking to client’s houses.  Solid combat boots for hunting the late night streets.

But before clothes, shoes, and cosmetics, the Master demanded His Portion.  In cash.

After seeing Mrs. Warner to her car, ‘Wethil returned to the house.  She stared up the grand staircase.  Wondered if she dared climb it to make an approach.  This Mairon couldn’t get away from her fast enough.  That evoked an entirely unexpected hurt in her.  She’d always thought her company pleasing to him in the past.

During Angband’s long, dark winters, they’d spent many hours in conversation.  Played a thousand games of strategy with the Captain.  Mairon had even instructed her in sorcery and witchcraft.

The Tarot cards she used to entice her meals were the product of his clever hands.  His own personal deck, in fact.  They brimmed with power.  Read accurately every time.  With any client.

“ Hello, young woman.”

Thuringwethil jerked from her reverie.  Huge black eyes blinked up at the mortal who stood on the landing above her.  Another old woman?

“ Good afternoon.”  ‘Wethil responded uncertainly,  “ Ma’am.”

 “ Faroula Tesazdi.”

“ Terese Withywindle,” The lamia summoned her most appealing smile.

“ You are flat A?”  Faroula Tesazdi asked as she descended to the ground floor.

“ Yes, ma’am.”

“ My son is flat B.”

Thuringwethil froze, blinking in astonishment.  Her son?  How was that possible?

“ Dr. Smith?”  She questioned just to be sure.  “ Mairon Smith?”

“ Yes, my Rhonee.  We move him in.”  The old woman spoke with a soft, lilting accent.  Her syntax indicated that Westron had become her first language after her formative years.

The vampire nearly choked at "Rhonee".  Her eyes widened.  She bit back a mischievous grin.  " _Rhonee_ ", indeed!

Thuringwethil studied the mortal.  Her aquiline face retained its charm.  She’d obviously been handsome in her youth.  The silver-grey wings that swept out from her temples, in a head of still black hair, certainly gave a dramatic effect.  ‘Wethil noted it for future use.

“ I met your son,” saying _that_ felt truly odd, “ a week or so ago.  Very good-looking,” she added, for it was the truth.  Mairon always chose beautiful flesh.  And it seemed beautiful flesh chose him even when he had no say in the matter.

“ He’s a handsome boy.  Very clever.”  Faroula said with obvious pride.

‘Wethil did choke at "handsome boy".

“ He works too much.  Always in a lab, in an office.  His face in a computer.  When he was little, in library books.”

Now that sounded _exactly_ like her master.  ‘Wethil remembered to make a sympathetic face though inside she exulted.  Yes, surely this was he!

The older woman continued, “ I think it would be good for him to know his neighbors.  We met “Just Kosomot’ this morning.  And his dog.”

Dog?  What dog?

“ A big man, eh?  He lives out back, yes?”  Faroula Tesazdi was not shy.  “ In the garage?”

“ Carriage house.”  ‘Wethil corrected,  “ The Ma… The owner, Mr. Bell, converted the upper rooms into a separate flat when he restored the mansion.”  She winced inside.  Nearly slipped there.

“ Kosomot moved in this week.”  She didn’t know where in Utumno’s deepest hell-pit the Captain had found a dog.  “ Mr. Bell just hired him to care-take the property.  Mow the lawn, trim hedges, fix the plumbing,”

She’d dearly love to see the Captain attempt any of those things.  It would be too funny!

Watching Langon struggle to change a dead light bulb in the front door lamps had given her an entire day’s amusement.  And a week of reminiscent giggles.

“ Ah.”  In a falling tone.  Some of the light left Faroula’s face.  “ He’s been very helpful.”

Thuringwethil wondered at the subtle change in the old woman’s face and voice.  The vampire’s mind worked rapidly.

‘Wethil had a stroke of inspiration.

“ Perhaps…you’d…like…to…see…my flat?  And join me for a cup of tea.”  She’d adapted to gagging down the horrible stew before turning over the cups,  “ I could read your leaves.”

“ Ah!”  Faroula’s face brightened again.  “ You have The Gift?”

‘Wethil felt as if lightning struck her.  A jolt of electricity blazed through her whole body.

“ Oh yes!”  Here was a way!  A way into her master’s life and perhaps back into his heart. “ I’m a working Medium.  Well experienced in Tasseography!  Also in Chiromancy, Taromancy and Necromancy.  I’d be very happy, Mrs. Tesazdi, to read your Tarot.  I offered to read your son’s but he didn’t seem interested,”

“ Bah.  He has too many maths in his head.  They blind him.  He could have been a poet, you know.  Such a gift for languages – he speaks ten – but no, he must become an engineer like his Aba.  His father.”  The old woman confided.  She looked back up the stairs.  “ I come later, yes, for your tea?  Now, I go check those boys.  And that dog.  They left her outside, poor thing.”

“ I’ll be home,”  ‘Wethil assured.  Mrs. Warner had been today’s only client.  She’d intended to roost, but now she’d nap on the couch.

Thuringwethil watched the mortal go back up the stairs: straight-backed and spritely for her age.  The vampire almost skipped back into her own flat.  After sliding the pocket door closed, she turned to her empty front parlor and whispered, “ Yes,” Raising both hands in triumph, “ YES!”

 

 

Faroula stepped onto the stair landing.  The dog lay down on the spot that “Just Kosomot” had left her.  She looked up at the old woman and her tongue came out.  She grinned.

Faroula muttered under her breath.  She looked around, to ensure that there were no witnesses nearby.  “ Come on, girl,”

The dog launched to her feet.

“ Come here,” Faroula coaxed, “ Come up.”

No other encouragement needed.  Other than a brief, uncertain pause at the bottom of the stairs, the dog speeded up to press her head into Faroula’s palm.

She bent down and whispered into one pointed ear, “ My Rhonee loves dogs.  You come visit.  You get good food.  Much petting.  Maybe a good home.  He spends less time at work.”

The dog panted up at her and lashed an enthusiastic tail.

“ Come,” Faroula coaxed.

After Mairon had been with them several months – long enough to ensure that Child Services were satisfied with his progress and would not take him away - they’d adopted a rescue dog from the Animal Shelter.

Darib suggested it to help bring the withdrawn child out of himself.  Because Roni responded very well to Haddah Dajeen’s yappy little mop.  More than other children.

She distinctly remembered Mairon sitting cross-legged on their coffee table staring at Zaekir as if the other little boy was an incomprehensible and alien creature.

Four-year-old Zaekir had been devastated.  Excited by the concept of a cousin to play with, he’d instead faced the harsh reality of a deeply damaged child out of Foster Services.

They’d all faced it.

A child who refused to talk.  Did not know how to play.  Who screamed blue-murder at the sight of the community pool.  Disassembled anything he could reach and left categorized pieces spread in a neat tableau on the carpet.  Sat, face to the corner, singing wordless tunes under his breath.

A child who woke howling with grief and rage in the early morning hours.

But Faroula’s heart had ached so much for a child.  She’d never contemplated giving him back.  Unlike the other foster families that rejected him for his troubling behavior.

She and Darib had been denied a placement so many times.  Once she had Mairon in her arms, nothing could induce her to surrender him.

Eventually, he’d blossomed in their household, under their care, and become a source of great pride.  Brilliant.  Successful.  Loyal.

Faroula looked at the animal hovering outside the kitchen door.  She made an encouraging gesture.  The dog put one nervous paw on the linoleum.  Then the other one.

“ You come.”  Faroula patted her own thigh and clicked her tongue.  The dog crept into the kitchen.

“ I get you chicken, hmm?  No ham.  Bad for dogs.”  Faroula led her to the refrigerator.  The animal watched the old woman get out a package of sliced lunch meat.  Crouching low on her front paws, her tail began to whip.

It was obvious this dog had previous experience with cold cuts.

Faroula opened the wrapping and peeled off a slice.  She rolled it into a tube.  Breaking off a chunk, she fed it to the dog.  Who took it daintily without even a hint of a snap.

“ I suppose your family misses you.  They must be looking, eh?”  She finished doling out the meat, “ Rhonee will want to find them for you.  That’s how he is.  A problem must be solved.  But a day or two will remind him…he needs someone to love.”

 

 

Mairon hauled on the rolled mattress.  ‘Just Kosomot’ held the cardboard box.

“ Come out, you fucking bastard,” Mairon muttered under his breath.  He said to the giant man on the other end, “ Maybe we should cut it free,”  Because the damn thing was wedged.

“ It’s coming, keep pulling,” Kosomot grunted as he shifted for a better grip.  A moment later the mattress and its containment packaging thumped out onto the hardwood floor,  “ Victory!”

Mairon heaved the cylinder up onto its end.  The instructions said when the mattress was cut free it would unroll and decompress.  After twenty-four hours, it would be ready for use.

He imagined one would be ready for Faroula tonight.  She’d gotten thin with age.  He’d unroll his blanket pallet and sleep on the floor.

“ I ordered the Harvard frames the same time I ordered these,” Mairon said to his companion, “ So, of course, they arrive first. Maybe tomorrow, if the frames show up and you’re not busy, you could help me assemble them.”

Kosomot grinned.  He had no idea what a Harvard frame was.  “ Be glad to help.  I have no plans tomorrow.”

As this little conversation took place, the Captain noticed a dark, transparent shadow float from one of the room’s air ducts.  His grin grew wider.  He recognized its vibration at once and was not surprised when it floated over to swirl around Mairon’s ankles.

Rat, of course.

Much to Kosomot’s surprise, Mairon was oblivious to her.  And to the stream of others that followed.  Soon a veritable cloud surrounded the Lieutenant.  Kosomot could barely see him.  The entire Swarm, it seemed, must check him out.  Flutter up his ponytail.  Caress bare ankles and feet.

As suddenly as the Swarm appeared, they raced for the air ducts.  Melted through floorboards or, whipping into corners, dissipated into the walls.

Low growls filled the room.  The old woman and the dog stood in the bedroom doorway.  The dog pointed, her hackles bristling.  All her fangs displayed.

Faroula had such an expression on her face – shocked concern.

“ What the…”  Mairon demanded.

“ So many.”  Faroula wondered,  “ And all curious about you, Rhonee.”  She reached down to pat the dog.  “ Good girl.  Enough.  They are gone.”

The dog’s stiff-legged stance relaxed.  For a moment, she leaned her shoulder against the woman’s calf.  Then she rushed forward to sniff first Kosomot’s hand then Mairon’s bare feet.

The Captain finally felt secure in his hard-won human flesh.  All that molecular chicanery - an utter success!

“ What are you talking about, Umi?  And what’s wrong with her?”

“ Ah, my child.”  Faroula sighed.  “ Nothing you will like.”

Mairon switched to ‘Bandi,  “ Oh, not this nonsense again, Mother!”

Faroula replied in the same language,  “ Then explain the dog, hmm?”

Mairon pulled up, nonplused.  After a long moment, “ She must have reacted to your body language.”  Then he added in Westron, “ And she’s not supposed to be in here.”  He glanced at Kosomot, “ Not your fault.  I suspect she was lured.”  He shot Faroula a reproving glance.

Faroula, too, returned to Westron, “ I get her water.  She was hot.”

She didn’t bat an eyelash at Mairon’s skeptical, knowing look.  After a moment, Faroula observed, “ That mattress is very thin.”

“ It decompresses.”  Mairon returned in short response.

“ Ah! This I see for myself.”  Faroula patted her leg to call the dog back to where she stood in the doorway.  “ Good girl.”  With a stroke for the dog’s head.  After a moment, she prompted,  “ You unwrap the mattress, yes?”

“ Yes, Umi.”  Turning to ‘Just Kosomot’,  Mairon rolled his eyes.

Pulling a pocketknife from his jeans, he flicked it open to reveal a wickedly sharp blade.  Mairon actually made a joke, “ Stand back,”  He warned the colossal redhead, “ It’s gonna blow,”

Faroula laughed.  Kosomot stepped away.  But he didn’t get it until Mairon slit the thick plastic.  The mattress, freed from its compression, began to unroll and inflate.  It became a regular, bulky, full-sized mattress in half a minute.

“ That’s astounding!’  Kosomot exclaimed.

“ Ah – clever!”  Faroula announced at the same time.

“ They get excellent reviews online.”  Mairon, with much satisfaction, closed his pocketknife and tucked it away.  “ And cost half as much to ship.  Wish we could have put it right on its frame.”  Inefficiency and unnecessary labor were always a sore point with him.  “ I think we’ll leave it on its side for now,”  He looked at the dog, “ So you’ll stay off it, little miss.”

“ Shall we open the other one?”  Kosomot asked.  He looked forward to seeing that again!

“ I think so.”  Mairon nodded.  “ Then we’ll stop for lunch.  Will you join us?  Just cold cuts and salad in pita, but we can offer you a ginger beer to wash it down.”

Kosomot had no idea what any of those things were.  “ Thank you.  I’d be happy to break bread with you.”  After a steady diet of chicken nuggets and tater tots, something different appealed very much.

Faroula and Mairon shared an amused, surreptitious glance at the odd giant’s choice of words.

“ I get out the food, and paper plates.  Rhonee, I need your knife.”  Faroula announced.

“ There are knives in the box on the island, Umi.”

“ I need to open the box before I wash knives.”  Faroula reminded.  They’d bought a pack of sponges and a bottle of dish soap when they’d gotten supplies.

“ That tape’s so old it’ll probably peel right off,”  Mairon muttered to himself.  But he pulled his knife out again,  “ We’ll see, shall we?”

Kosomot trailed behind them into the kitchen.  Beside an unopened stack of paper plates, a medium-sized box waited on the island.  The list plastered to its side with clear packing tape declared:

Knife roll - 1 bread knife, 1 chef’s knife, 1 boning blade, 1 carving knife, 4 paring knives. (Camellia Oil – wash before use.  Reapply.)

Silverware - 8 dinner knives, 8 butter knives, 8 forks, 8 dessert forks, 8 tablespoons, 8 teaspoons.  (Stainless.)

China - 4 dinner plates, 4 dessert plates, 4 soup bowls, 2 teacups, 1 mug

Misc. - 2 sm. cutting boards,  1 veg. peeler, 2 tea eggs,” and so on in neat, uniform print.

The Captain grinned to himself.  He’d harbored not a doubt since meeting Mairon this morning, but if he had…  This would allay them.  Each box with its detailed and categorized inventory taped to its side.  It reminded him, nostalgically, of Angband’s armory.  Treasury.  Larders.

Eru help the Umaia or orc who stowed a chest unlabeled.  Melkor certainly wouldn’t.

A memory flashed across his mind.  The Master, during one of His frequent ‘inspection’ visits, standing before a mountain of crates labeled “ Left-arm Shields”.

“ Every orc at the end of an infantry line fights left-handed.  Hence, they must bear an appropriate shield, milord.”  Mairon commanding an orcling to bring a pry-bar so he might show particulars to the Master.

“ I trust your attention to detail, Lieutenant,” Melkor, Chaos Personified, hiding an amused smile, “ I need not inspect them.”

Mairon’s abrupt change.  His suddenly blank face: “ As you will, Master.”

“ Oh, very well, show me one.  Then we’ll taste the wine I’ve brought.”

How Mairon brightened!

The other Valar, except the Lady Nienna, declared that Melkor loved Himself alone, but Kosomot knew better.  With his own eyes, he'd seen the Master's love bestowed.  And he’d seen it returned.

But he understood why Melkor let His Siblings believe that He was without heart.  It kept Mairon safe in His Service.  By His Side. Rather than hunted, captured, and used as leverage against Him during the Eternal Conflict.

The Master’s Favorite peeled the tape from the box.  He looked at the human woman standing beside him.  Said nothing.

Faroula shot Mairon a narrow glare.  “ Go unpack your mattress, child.”

“ Yes, Umi.”  He gave Kosomot a wry, smug glance, “ Let’s get that thing out of its box.”

“ Lead on, comrade, lead on.”  The Captain laughed.

“ Put the dog back outside, Umi,”  Mairon added as they left the kitchen.

Faroula, Kosomot noted, did not respond.

 

 

Rat hovered in the kitchen pantry.  She projected her senses into the kitchen, hunting for some sign of The Animal.  Only her master, the Captain, and the old woman stood around the island.  They stuffed greens and meats into flatbread pockets.

It seemed safe.

She floated casually from under the closed pantry door and skirted along the moldings.  Darting across open space, she secreted her energy under a drawer overhang at the base of the island.

Rat found her master’s unshod foot and coiled over it.  Tasting Purpose.  Ecstatic, she looped herself around his ankle.  Much like the elegant jewelry with which she’d once bedecked him.

Tinkling anklets, sparkling little toe rings, polished pearls for his navel, dangling amethysts for his ears.  Bracelets winking with emeralds attached by delicate chains to the rings on his fingers.

Oh, she’d missed attending him!  Oiling his hair and flesh until both glowed like burnished metal.  Brushing his long, silken mane until it flowed like molten copper down his back.  Tracing fine lines of kohl under his golden eyes.  Gliding paste of crushed rubies over his firm lips.  Lacing him into satin tunics so tight it was impossible to tell where he ended and the cloth began.

All designed to beguile and delight the Master.

Rat vibrated with jubilant notes.  She did not see Kosomot’s amused, furtive glance flick down to her.  Nor did she realize that she wafted up the length of Mairon’s body; caressing first his worn blue jeans and then his casual shirt.

Utterly entranced by his magnificence, she floated within the fine threads of his long ponytail.  Rat's energy brushed against his nape and throat.

She froze when she realized the old woman’s dark eyes focused… on… her!

Rat moved up.  Mortal eyes followed.  She moved down.  They moved down.  She whipped behind her master.  The old woman’s head tilted to look around Mairon.

Rat emitted a horrified scream.  Kosomot winced.  The old woman frowned.  Mairon’s head twitched to the side as if something had tickled his nose.

The small Umaia shot directly through the kitchen ceiling.  Her silent shriek went with her.

Rat whipped through the floorboards as an amorphous, buzzing cloud.  Spinning and rippling with dismay at the realization: those deep-set human eyes _saw_ her.

Without flesh!

This was a potential catastrophe!

Rat whizzed through the Master’s flat emitting an imperious, silent vibration.  Sounding an alarm, she careened through air ducts and between wooden walls down into the lamia’s living area, then the basement, and back up into the Master’s suite.

Beckoning the Swarm.

Answering her summons, they immediately congregated in the Master’s front parlor.  Lesser Umaiar perched on the comfortable couch, squatted on the carpet and hovered within the multitudinous musical instruments.  They filled the room brimming.

With all her siblings assembled, Rat assumed flesh.  Displaced air popped around her, such was her haste.  She pointed at the floor.  Chittered an urgent warning.  The old woman had The Gift.  The Sight.  Whoever she was, she could _See_ them!

Vole clutched at his heart.  But he envisioned sharing the same nest with a Rat who could not approach their master.  She’d kick the hell out of him in her sleep.

The other Umaiar hissed and growled.  They brandished small claws, paws, and pincers.  Gnashed a thousand tiny fangs.  They’d eat her!

“ Eat who?”  Langon asked from the kitchen doorway.  “ You little bastards wouldn’t eat my dead hooker.”  He reminded them on a disgruntled note.  The Herald carried a gallon of milk in one hand and a bag full of cookie boxes in the other.  “ There’s a really nice Audi in the driveway.  Did the Master get that for the Captain?”

He knew who’d have to teach Gothmog how to drive, and it wasn’t Thuringwethil.  She walked or took the bus.

The Swarm bristled.  Dozens of projected thoughts accosted Langon, all at once.

“ Whoa, slow down!”

As though summoned – if any creature, mortal or divine, would actually dare – the mirror on the wall filled with a silent storm front.  Roiling, churning, the shadowed tumult spat hail and sleet into the room.  Melkor stepped through.

He carried a black cast-iron device under one arm and a child-sized table under the other.  The table had various little cutouts and holes in its top.  A leather bag dangled from Melkor’s teeth and He had a screwdriver tucked behind one ear.  Squatting, He set His burden on the floor.

Taking the bag from His mouth, He looked around.  Spotting Rat where she stood on the coffee table, He announced, “ Vermin, your mechanism.”

Rat threw herself at Him.  Rather than dance for joy, however, the little Umaia collapsed facedown at the Master’s feet. Clutching His velvet slipper, she projected a jumble of concepts at Him.

Melkor’s face twisted with confusion, “ Woman, what woman?  Why is the Captain here?  I did not summon him.  If Mairon has finally returned, is this not cause for celebration?  Dog?  Whose dog?”

The Swarm of Lesser Umaiar began a furor of complaints about the dog.  And clamored to know if they could eat the woman.

During this frenzied interlude, a narrow black shadow slunk from one corner of the open portal.  It paused to assess the room with unblinking green eyes.  For a moment, it stared at the Swarm of Lesser Umaiar.  A transparent pink tongue curled out of a nonexistent mouth.  Then it focused on Melkor’s back.  The shadow slunk along the baseboards and disappeared behind the nearest window-drape.

Not a creature in the room noticed it.

The portal at the Master’s back bowed out.  A massive muzzle pressed through.  Followed by a set of brawny shoulders.  The muzzle gaped wide, revealing a deep, red maw.  Drops of saliva hissed as they hit the floor.

Great silver eyes, wide and angry, cast to and fro above a set of tremendous fangs.  Pointed ears swiveled forward.

Melkor looked back over His shoulder.

In abject terror, the Swarm yipped and dove for cover.  The couch lifted several inches off the floor as they jammed themselves under it.  Vole cheeped in panic.  He flew to cower behind Langon’s legs where the Herald stood in the kitchen doorway.

“ No!”  The Master scolded, “ No!” He rose to His feet, “ Naughty ñgwaurō!  Naughty!”  He put one hand on the great, powder blue muzzle.  “ No, Draugluin, not yet.”  He braced His other hand on the werewolf’s burly shoulder and began to push.

Draugluin whined pitifully.  “ Eat it,” the werewolf pleaded, “ Let me eat it, Master,”

“ You may not eat the woman.  Neither can you,” He threw back over His shoulder to the Swarm trying to make themselves invisible under His furniture.

This confused the werewolf, for he knew not of what the Master spoke.  Draugluin stopped pressing forward long enough for Melkor to shove his huge shoulders back through the portal.

Another notion flashed through the great beast’s mind as his nose caught a distant but familiar scent.

“ The Maker!”  On the far side of the portal, Drauglin’s long tail twitched straight out then began to thrash from side to side.  “ My Maker!  He will want me!  Master, he will need me!  The puppy failed you both, he will need **_me_**!”

“ Not yet,” Melkor grunted as He shoved Draugluin all the way back through the portal.  “ He won’t know you.”  The Master, too, disappeared into the glass.

Far distant, they heard the werewolf howl and the Master coax, “ Bonie?  Big, dripping, meaty bonie?”  and answering howls from the entire werewolf hoard.

Rat lay with her chin on the floor, watching ripples of colour move along the mirror surface.

After about ten minutes, Langon glanced down at Vole,  “ Let’s get the milk in the fridge.”  He pivoted into the kitchen.  Vole darted ahead of him.

The Swarm kept their cover.

Langon apparently stopped to make a cup of instant coffee.  Its dark, roast bean smell filled the front room.  When he reappeared, to lean his shoulder against the arch jamb, the Herald held a steaming mug and a stack of cookies.  He slid one into his mouth.

The Swarm refused to emerge despite Langon crunching away at six sandwich crème cookies

About an hour later, the Master backed into the room.  “ Stay.  All of you – Stay!  Good ñgwaurhoth!”  He cleaned His hands on a square of cloth and tossed it back through the mirror before He closed the portal.

In the interim Langon not only finished his coffee, he washed the mug, put it away, and used the lavatory.  Then he dragged a chair from the kitchen table and sat under the arch.  Vole crouched beneath.

Rat remained exactly in place but she pulled the little leather bag under her chin: guarding the nuts, bolts, and screws within.

The Swarm, still hiding, uttered not so much as a peep.

Turning to face the room, Melkor rolled His eyes.  “ Had to butcher a whole damned troll.  When did there get to be so many of those furry bastards?”  With evident pride.  He looked down upon Rat, “ Just counted twenty-seven pups.  Mairon will be ecstatic… eventually.”

He reached behind His ear only to find that, somewhere in the ether, He’d lost His screwdriver.  “ Shit.”  Muttering assorted curses under his breath, He strode into the kitchen.  Langon scooted his chair to one side as the Master passed him.

Draws banged.  Silverware clattered.  Melkor returned a moment later with a butter knife.

“ It’ll do.”  To Himself.  He sank down onto the floor beside the cast iron construction.  Melkor lined the device up with the various holes on the child-sized table. “ Hardware!”  He said, with a snap of his fingers toward Rat.

She pulled herself into a crouch and opened the little leather bag.  Spilled a collection of little iron screws, nuts, bolts, and a small metal slider plate onto the floor.  Quickly sorting everything by size and shape, she looked up at the Master.

“ Slider plate.”  Melkor’s open palm went out to her.  Rat passed it over.

“ Half-inch flatheads.”  She gathered the appropriate screws and filled his hand with them.  “ Now, why is the Captain here?”  He tucked the butter knife between his teeth.

Rat chittered, chattered, and clicked.

Melkor put the slider plate into position on the table, filling the largest hole.  He started the screws from below, blind, with just His fingertips.  He took the butter knife from His mouth.

“ Lungorthin’s always been an arrogant prick,” Melkor growled as He used the dull tip in place of the lost screwdriver.  “ But he sings his part well.  What dog?”

Rat snicked and cheeped.

“ Well, the Captain certainly can’t keep the damn thing.  He’ll have to be rid of it.”

The Swarm, still unseen, cheered.

“ Flathead bolts - inch and a quarter.”

Rat handed Melkor the bolts.  He dropped them in from the top.

“ Washers and nuts,”  Melkor demanded.  Rat slapped them into his palm.  He threaded the washers and nuts beneath the little table, as He’d done with the screws.  “ There.”

He picked up the cast-iron sewing machine and its attached stand.  Gave both a shake.  Put the whole thing down and tried to wiggle the machine.  It stayed firm.

“ You’re welcome, Vermin.”  He handed her two chords.  One went to a foot-pedal.  The other ended with an electric plug.  “ I expect my slacks to finally fit through the crotch.”  Melkor rose to his full height.

Crooning, Rat ran her hands over the top of the machine.  She dropped into a deep, awkward, squat of a curtsey at the Master’s knee.

“ I have a couple of blazers that could fit better,”  Langon commented from his seat under the kitchen arch.

Rat started to hiss at him.  She stopped.  He’d been diligent with cookies and milk.  And he’d replaced the Master’s beer he’d drunk.  She nodded and made a summoning gesture.

Until she could start making Lord Mairon’s clothes, she’d need garments with which to learn the machine.  Better the Herald’s jackets than the Master’s trousers.

The Swarm whispered out a reminder about the human woman.  If she could see them, why couldn’t they eat her?

“ Oh, yes, that.”  Melkor muttered.  “ What woman?”  He set His fists on His hips.

Rat whistled and clicked.  She pointed at the mirror behind Him.

It’s surface rippled.  The flat below came into focus.  Obviously, it reflected from the glass-fronted kitchen cabinets.  A spare figure, the woman, rinsed freshly washed dishes in the sink.  She set them on the cloth-laid counter to dry.  As she turned, wiping her hands, the Master exalted,  “ Ah-HA!”

He thrust His face close to the mirror.  “ You’ve gotten thin, my dear.  Grey and wrinkled.  But ‘tis you!”

Melkor breathed, with great satisfaction, “ You have Served Me well.”  To the reflection.  One hand arced up in adamant gesture,  “ The Haradi female is sacrosanct.  Not one of you harries her.  Tests or torments her.  For if you do, you shall answer to Me.”

The Swarm gave a collective whimper.

Just then, a tall man entered the kitchen.  He approached the woman.  Dark red hair twisted into a messy knot at the back of his head.  Strong frame clad in an old shirt and worn jeans.  He smiled and leaned down to kiss the woman’s forehead.

All eyes intent on the portal, none of them saw the narrow black shadow slip out an open window.

The Master crooned.  Long fingers reached out as if to touch that remarkably handsome face.  Stroke the loose strands of hair escaping from that haphazard twist.

“ My clever one.”  Melkor purred.  His deep, thrumming rumble vibrated the mirror and window panes.  “ My Mairon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the long, involved note at the end of Chapter 15. It explains what the heck is going on with the mouse and why she hasn't been on Tumblr or any other of her Social Media.
> 
> To Chokingonwhys - Please, may a mouse, eventually, approach you to discuss the Tarot Card matter? It's been a long time since I've thrown a Tree of Life - or any other pattern for that matter - and while I remember generalities, the specific meaning of the Minor Arcana have long deserted me. I want 'Wethil's reading for Faroula to read as authentic as possible and hope you will be so kind to allow me access to your superior knowledge of the Craft?
> 
> To Morgause1 - With so much love it's impossible to quantify, and hoping you're well and triumphing and finally catching up on sleep - As I said, I saw your IM and it brought tears to my eyes! I am VERY mindful that I have reviews/comments pending for you. Once I'm back East for the summer, I will have time to give them the full and thoughtful attention they deserve. Since I got back from Arizona, it's been straight out crazy.
> 
> To all of you who read this story, thank you for your time. And your patience. I do not have the best history with long pieces and I'm amazed that I've managed to get this far - it's solely due to your kindness, your encouragement, your read-hits, and those comments with which you are kind enough to gift me your time. I could not do this without you. I hope you know that.
> 
> Be well. Know that you are loved and your time is appreciated. No matter how long it takes me, I do try to respond to every comment. I'm sorry if it takes a while, my life gets hectic sometimes, but I will be there eventually. Thank you for your patience.
> 
> <3 <3 <3 from a <3~~~


	17. At Sixes and Sevens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " At Sixes and Sevens" means "A state of confusion and disorder, or of disagreement between parties." Which would describe Melkor's Court and Household at the best of times.
> 
> Thuringwethil has a difficult time reading the tea leaves for Faroula and an unsatisfactory session turns worse when Mairon shows up.
> 
> Melkor wants his long black mane trimmed so he looks good when he starts seducing Mairon. His hair, however, has another opinion. Rat, with some help from her trusty companion Vole, does her best. 
> 
> Langon has a Good Day. For a change! 
> 
> And Kosomot Reports to the Master of the Household and reclaims his position as one of Melkor's favorites.
> 
> Mairon begins executing his plan to make friends with Kosomot. He also has an unexpected encounter in the dark with his new landlord...
> 
> Addendum: A mouse is a dips**t, please excuse her. Many (Belated - groans, yep, dips**t mouse) Thanks to Morgause1 for the term "Haradi" for the singular of Haradrim. <3! Eventually, I'll go back and change it throughout the story. It may not be canon but it makes perfect sense. And I just love it!

* * *

July 24, 2018

 

**_At Sixes and Sevens_ **

 

 

Tea leaves didn’t work like this!

Thuringwethil stared into the cup.  She gulped and shot a quick glance at the Haradi woman seated on her couch.

A polished silver tea service, prettily displayed on an inlaid wooden tray, occupied the coffee table between them.  Complete with delicate china cups and matching saucers.

Silence hung heavy in Thuringwethil’s cozily furnished parlor.

The vampire’s face twisted in a nervous smile.  Almost a grimace.

She stared harder at the sludge of amber liquid and wet leaves clumped in black patterns at the bottom of Faroula’s cup.

There, written out in Black Speech, it was.  “Pain”

How could she tell the old woman that?

She turned the cup around in her palm.  The words shifted.

“Doom”

She tilted it to shift the sludge again.  

“Annihilation”

Realization dawned: these threats were directed at _her_ not the mortal.The vampire bit the edge of her lower lip.  The Master had cast His most powerful Wards over this female.  Leaving ‘Wethil absolutely nothing to work with.

She cast a longing glance over to the sideboard.  The Tarot, wrapped in a square of gold velvet cloth, sat safely in their polished rosewood box.  ‘Wethil felt sure that they’d read true. 

But she’d promised a leaf reading!

The vampire could not afford to improvise.  This was too important.  No other choice then.  She cast out preternatural senses and skimmed gently along the mortal’s mind.

“ I see…trouble…a problem…no, an accident.”  Thuringwethil could get nothing but the most basic vibration off Faroula Tesazdi.  As if she were shielded.  Or…suppressed.  Yes - suppressed.

The old woman continued to give her a straight stare.  Not a shift in facial expression.  Damn, it reminded her of Lord Mairon.

“ There’s recently been an accident.  Not to you, but someone close to you.  A sister, or brother, or husband.  Yes, your husband.  Oh, thankfully he’s not badly hurt.”

Faroula nodded once. “ He is as tough as an old camel.”

‘Wethil probed again.  She could only sense faint pulses of thought.  Little hints about the woman’s strongest concerns.

“ But something pleasing came out of it.  Something you’ve wanted for a long time.”  ‘Wethil made a show of rotating the cup.  While the sludge moved, she tilted her head as if seeking a clearer view.  The tea leaves now prophesied “Obliteration”

“ Rhonee came home.”  Faroula smiled.

“ You miss him.”  Thuringwethil gave her a sympathetic glance.  She understood exactly how the mortal woman felt.  She tried to put herself in deeper into Faroula’s mindset, “ You worry for him.”

“ He does not make friends well.”  Faroula’s head tipped, “ Easily.”  She corrected herself.

Now, that was an understatement if ever the lamia heard one.

“ He’ll find friends here,” Thuringwethil assured Faroula.

 The Captain, damn him, had spent the entire bloody day at Lord Mairon’s side.  When the old woman arrived, she’d confided that they were out in the carriage house looking over not only Gothmog’s flat but the Master’s workshop.

‘Wethil turned the cup over onto its saucer with a little clink.  Clearing it.  She swished the pot to agitate the leaves at its bottom before she poured out fresh for each of them.

Faroula drank her tea with purpose.  Thuringwethil pretended to sip her own.

The old woman handed her an empty cup.

“Agony” the leaves promised. 

Melkor had laid his Wards with a heavy hand: “Torment” 

“ Maybe more than friends.”  ‘Wethil bit back a mischievous grin as she turned the cup around.

“Exsanguination” 

The leaves moved of their own accord.  “Fuck Off”

The Master had returned.  And He was displeased.  She shot a glance up at the ceiling.  Swallowed heavily. 

‘Wethil put down the cup.  “ I see great satisfaction concerning your son’s situation in your near future.  I could give you more details if you’d permit me to lay my Tarot for you.”

“ I have never had the cards thrown,” Faroula confided, “ When I was little, my grandmother read the sands for me.  She was known for her Gift all the way to Umba itself.”

Ah!  The Gift traveled in families.  If the grandmother possessed it, then it would manifest in later generations.  But for some reason, this daughter of the desert was closed off from her natural talents.  Her Birthright.  ‘Wethil had found other cases where the Gift was present but dormant.  Present but suppressed.  Usually the result of trauma.

The cards would permit a deeper exploration of that, too.  ‘Wethil’s hands practically itched.  She turned in her seat, intending to draw Faroula’s attention to the rosewood box and its contents, but they were interrupted.

“ Umi?” Lord Mairon’s voice echoed down from the flat above.  “ Umi?”

“ He wants to go for dinner.”  Faroula said, “ He thinks I need to eat at 4 or I shall waste away.”  She clicked her tongue.  “ Foolish boy.”

She poured herself more tea.

Footfalls on the stairs.

“Umi?”

Mairon strode past the open door.  A moment later, he backed up and stared into Thuringwethil’s flat.  His face became stiff and blank.

The lamia knew that expression well.

 “ Come.  Have tea.”  Faroula spoke over her shoulder.

Thuringwethil tried her most ingratiating smile.  “ Please, join us,”

“ We should get going, Umi.”  Mairon said.

“ Come.  Sit.”  The old woman made it a command.

Mairon obeyed.  He joined Faroula on the couch.  Crossing one long leg over the other, Mairon folded both hands over his knee.  Completely closed off.

‘Wethil received the cold stare he reserved for failed Orc commanders and incompetent foundry masters.

She quailed.  Trembling hands lifted the teapot.  The spout chattered against fine china before she managed to steady herself.

“ No sugar.”  Faroula leaned forward to gather the cup and saucer.  In handing it over, she turned to face him.  Her black eyes filled with warning.  “Miss Withywindle has a lovely flat, no?”

Mairon accepted the china.  He glanced over ‘Wethil’s silver service, her antique furniture, and navy blue drapes.  His traveling eye stopped on the floor.

“ Nice carpets.”  He noted, “ Did you get them online?”

“ No,” The vampire leaned forward in her seat, “ right here in the village.  There’s a wonderful antique shop on the High Street.  It specializes in carpets.”

He sipped his tea.  No raised pinky for him.  He used it, rather, to steady the fragile cup.  Golden brown eyes assessed her over the rim.  “Expensive?”

“ They’re antique carpets,” Langon had actually bought them for the Master.  She had no idea why she’d ended up with them or what they cost but knowing Melkor… “ Of course they were expensive.”

“ So…playing cards and chatting up the dead pays well, then?”

‘Wethil blinked.  Lord Mairon’s verbal whip was out.  She watched the old woman reach down and pinch his thigh – hard.  He didn’t even twitch.

“ They belong to Mr. Bell.  I rent the flat furnished.”

It didn’t elicit the deferential response ‘Wethil expected.  He continued his cool, assessing stare.  One auburn eyebrow lifted a fraction.

“ I haven’t met Mr. Bell,”  Mairon said.

That explained a great deal.  Thuringwethil sat back in her winged armchair.  “ Oh, then you’re in for a treat.”  She bit back a giggle, “ He’s a force of nature.”

“ So Kosomot says.”  Mairon’s lips lifted in something that might be a smile.  It didn’t reach amber-brown eyes.  And it wasn’t friendly.

“ I suspect it won’t be long.” Thuringwethil toasted him with her cup.  “ He lives upstairs.  I’m sure He’ll drop by to see how you’re settling in.”

“ Upstairs?”  Mairon lost the cold smile.  His face became intent, “ He’s the one with the piano?”  Not above pumping her for information.

Thuringwethil happily provided it.

“ Piano, violin, trumpet, oboe, saxophone, viola, bass,” she rattled off the names of the instruments she knew.  Melkor had them all, and more.

“ He’s a musician?”

“ Oh, no.”  She let her grin free, “ He’s in Real Estate.  Vast amounts of Real Estate.”

Faroula spoke for the first time since the verbal sparring began.  “ He is a man of many talents, then?”

“ Oh, He’s very talented.  And He’s got more money than the King, himself.”

The old woman’s face became thoughtful.  Mairon’s closed down again. 

‘Wethil suppressed another giggle.  “ I said you were in for a treat.”

 

 

Langon winced.  This time both scissors and comb clattered to the floor.  Long cords of black hair wrapped tight around the she-Vermin’s head and throat.  Rat’s pale face turned blue.  Black lips blanched.  One heel beat the floorboards.

“ Master,” Langon whispered.

Melkor appeared not to hear.  He sat, completely naked, facing the parlor piano that took up the octagon section of the main room.

Brooding.  Or plotting intrigue.  Definitely lost in thought.

“ Master…”  Langon spoke louder.

Melkor twitched.  Growled, “ What?”

Vole, just entering the front parlor from the hallway, gave an alarmed shrill.  He rushed forward only to stop a foot away from the Master’s straight-backed chair.

What to do?  A lesser spirit such as he had no Right to touch Melkor, or Melkor’s hair, unless bidden.  Vole clutched Rat’s convulsing fingers.

“ Master,” Langon wasn’t sure how to phrase it…

Rat’s eyes rolled up.  She buckled.  Her knees thumped against the floorboards.  Melkor’s hair, writhing madly, jerked her high.  Let her drop.  Smack!  Her knees crashed into the wood.

The Master reached back.  Gathering His mane in one fist, He shook the thick fuligin mass.  “ Let go.”  The writhing hold tightened.  “ Release her, I say!”  He shook His hair again.

Thick strands recoiled.

Rat collapsed face down.  Gasping.  Vole grabbed her limp body and dragged her away from Melkor, His chair, and that murderous head of hair.  Rat, rolling on her back, heaved as she sucked in desperate gulps.

The Herald watched from his seat beneath the arched kitchen doorway.

Melkor glanced over His shoulder, “ Resume.”  He commanded.

Rat struggled to her feet.  One unsteady hand pointed at the comb and scissors.  Vole, cringing as he drew close to the Master’s chair, snatched them up.  He brought them to her. 

With last gasp for air, Rat marched forward.  Comb held before her like a dagger.

Vole covered his eyes

“ Get on with it!”  Melkor snapped.

Langon winced.  He cringed.

Rat clenched the scissors in her teeth, reached out with her free hand, and clutched a long tress.  When she brought up the comb, the Master’s hair leapt away.  It twisted and jerked with indignant violence.  Another hank swayed ominously toward the Vermin’s bare foot.

Langon pointed at the long tress, giving Rat a silent warning.

She kicked at the coil of hair trying to latch around her ankle.  Vole, peeking through his fingers, whimpered.

Langon began to bite his fingernails.

“ How long is this going to take?”  Melkor growled, “ It’s a trim, for fuck’s sake!”

Rat mumbled an obsequious chitter around the scissors in her mouth.  She managed to get the comb through one long tress.  Fast as lightning, she snatched the scissors, lined them up, and snipped a straight line.

The Master’s mane went wild.  Lunging and darting like a nest of furious serpents, it whipped the comb across the room and tried to wrest the scissors from Rat’s hand.  She jumped back, holding the tool out of reach.  Vole darted to retrieve the comb.

Langon took his hand away from his mouth.  “ I had a serious offer on the Desmond Street property.  Would you review the paperwork, my Lord?”  Went right back to worrying at his cuticles.   

Once the coiling mass settled into a gentle undulation, Rat began again.

“ Is it within the range I stipulated?”  Melkor asked.

“ Yes, my Lord.  In fact, it’s only ten thousand pounds below our asking price.”

“ Then get it into escrow.  I want to make an offer on that Reformation Age monstrosity on Andas beachhead.  Convert it to summer rentals.”

“ They’re asking too much, Master.  It’s a sty.  It’ll take us years to restore it.”  The Herald muttered.

The comb whipped across the room.  It bounced off the mirror.  Vole ran after it.

“ Hire contractors.  Have them gut the whole thing.”  Melkor announced, “ You will command.  I have a much more pressing concern here.”

Langon’s face went stark.  His hand dropped into his lap.  “ My Lord,” his voice shook.  “ You want me to move to the Andasi Peninsula?”

“ No.”

Langon slumped in relief.  Then realization hit.  He sat bolt upright, “ You’re giving me the whole project?”  No such honour had been bestowed on him before.

“ Don’t fuck up or I’ll crush your skull.  Again.”

“ No, my Lord….  Yes, my Lord…. I mean… I’ll do my best, Master.”

The scissors, dangerously open, spun across the floor.  Langon lifted his foot so the blades wouldn’t embed in his shoe.  They whirled into the kitchen.

A leathery-skinned sibling trotted out with the tool.  Once it had delivered the scissors to a disheveled Rat, it crouched in a corner with several others.  They watched as the haircut continued.

Rat managed to comb the whole length of Melkor’s hair.  Her critical eye took in the bottom edge.  Finding a few spots she’d missed, the she-Vermin waded back into the fray.

Langon swiveled in his seat when he heard the kitchen door open behind him.  He rose and announced, “ Gothmog, High-Captain of Angband, seeks audience, Dread Lord.”

The Captain appeared in the arch.  Melkor lifted a lazy hand and pointed at a spot before Him.

Kosomot strode over and presented himself.  Feet apart, legs braced, and both hands tucked behind his back, the Captain bowed.  “ Master.”

Langon sat back down.

Rat hissed as Melkor’s hair hurtled the comb down the hallway.  Vole ran after it.

“ I did not summon you, Captain,”  Melkor noted conversationally.

“ You did not, my Lord.” Kosomot agreed.

“ You’d best bring welcome news.”

“ Lord Mairon is well.  He is much pleased with his quarters.  We have begun settling him.”

“ Very good, Captain.”  Melkor nodded, “ Welcome news, indeed.”

“He and the Lady Faroula have gone out for dinner.  I am assured generous compensation to stand guard for deliveries arriving before their scheduled time.  He believes I possess a key to the house, and each flat, Master.”

Vole returned with the comb and a damp towel Melkor had discarded after his recent shower.  Giving Rat the comb, Vole held out the towel.  Projected thought flowed between them.

“ Why, Captain, would My Lieutenant assume that you had keys?”  Melkor asked.

Rat considered Vole’s suggestion.  Her face twisted.  She snicked the scissors open and closed.  Expression clearing, she nodded.

“ Master,  I have been designated ‘Caretaker’ by the Lady Thuringwethil.”

“ Actually,” Langon interjected, “ By me, Master.  Abject apologies…”

Rat applied the comb.  Holding the towel at the end of his reach, Vole folded its wet fabric around the Master’s hair.  The Vala’s mane sensed His touch on the towel.  The writhing mass relaxed.  Rat lay on the floor and snipped away.

Rat whispered a chirrup.  She gave Langon an approving glance.

Melkor, expression unreadable, looked askance at the Herald.

“ Then we have cookies?”  Melkor asked Rat.  She cheeped.  “ Herald, coffee and cookies.  Now.”

Grinning as if he’d been heaped with praise, Langon snapped to his feet.  “ Yes, Master!”  He paused, “ Instant or brewed, lord?”

“ Brew a pot.”

The Vermin laid her scissors on the floor and combed the ends of the Vala’s hair with her fingertips.

Melkor hummed.  Lifting one hand, He plucked a brass ring from the air.  Tossing it to Gothmog, he said, “ There, Captain, are the keys to this little kingdom.  Guard them well.”

“ Of course, Master.”

“ Ey, Dimwit, order Chinese,” Melkor called to Langon, “ While you’re at it.”

The Swarm crooned, “ Noooodddlessss,” from their corners and crevices.

Rat, with one eye mere millimeters from the tips of Melkor hair, gave a decisive click.  She clambered to her feet.  Vole eased the towel away and hopped back.  He obviously expected immediate retaliation.  Much to everyone’s amazement, none came. 

The clippings on the floor began to fizzle.  They disappeared in a bright flurry of angry little sparks.

The Vermin pattered around to stand beside Gothmog.  In their funny, awkward, jerky way, one bowed and the other curtseyed.

“About fucking time.”  Melkor growled.  He stood.  Sweeping up his long mane, He let it run over one forearm.  “ It’ll do.”  He pronounced.  Turning to the kitchen doorway, he barked, “ Get at least three orders of Lo Mein.  And meat on a stick.”  He paused, “ Or should We have pizza?”

“ Noooddlesss?” the Swarm sounded heartbroken.

“ They are rather like intestines, aren’t they?”  Melkor mused, “ Tiny little intestines.  Chinese it is.”

“ Today I had chicken and ham in a pita with onions, peppers, lettuce, olive oil, and vinegar.  It was tasty.”  Gothmog commented.

“ He _will_ eat that green shit.”  Melkor muttered in disgust.  “ Damn Yavanna.”

The Vermin, between them, lifted Melkor’s abandoned chair and carried it back to its place at the kitchen table.  Langon, with his mobile phone wedged between ear and shoulder, poured water into the percolator well.

“ That’s right, I said two orders of chicken Lo Mein, two orders of pork Lo Mein, and one shrimp Lo Mein.  Yes, quarts.  No, that’s not everything.  I want six orders of teriyaki chicken and ten of the beef.  Five orders of pork dumplings with extra sauce.  Ten orders of egg rolls.  And I want four Kung Pao Shrimp as spicy as you can make them.  You go as high as ten?  Then make them a twelve.  No white rice.  No, I don’t want any rice.”

He winked at the Vermin as they trotted by.

In the front parlor, Kosomot occupied one end of the comfortable couch.  The Swarm fought each other to sit on his feet, or his shoulders.  Two siblings hovered before the TV, pointing and whispering, to explain its operation.  They turned on the Master’s preferred news channel.

“ Time for the news!”  Melkor shouted from His bedroom.  He emerged in a casual button-down shirt and a pair of slacks.  Braiding His mane, He thumped down onto the end of the couch opposite the Captain.  He patted His thigh.

Rat ran.  She clambered into her place of Honour and surveyed the room with an arch, imperious expression.  Vole pattered behind.  He squeaked with shock when he found himself lifted and deposited on Melkor’s other thigh.  Both sat as stiff and upright as reigning monarchs.

Gothmog lifted one shockingly red eyebrow.

“ They’re horrible little monsters,” Melkor rumbled.  He ruffled Vole’s unkempt black hair.  “ Aren’t you?”  As one, the Vermin nodded.  “ Did a good job with this pair of slacks,” Melkor told Rat, “ Plenty of room now.”

Langon emerged from the kitchen with a steaming mug of black coffee and a handful of butter cookies.  He presented them with a bow.

“ Ah,” Melkor accepted both with a magnanimous dip of his head.  “ How long ‘til food?”

“ Delivery in forty-five minutes, Master.”

“ Then I’ll want more cookies.  Will you join me, Captain?”  He looked over at Gothmog.

“ At your pleasure, lord.” Kosomot bowed his head.

“ Fetch coffee for the Captain and bring the whole box of cookies, Dimwit.”  Melkor stretched out.  “ So, how did he look?” To Gothmog.

“ Like himself, Master.”

Melkor blew out an impatient breath.  Rat swiveled around.  She began to chirrup and warble.  Little hands came out to smooth through the air.  Her fingers flared wide to stroke nothing. 

“ Good, good.”  Melkor rumbled.  He ignored the news and loomed avidly over the little Umaia.

Rat, crooning, pressed her palms to her heart.  She waxed poetic at length.

 The Herald brought a fresh box of cookies and handed them to Vole.  He brought Gothmog a cup of coffee.  Then he returned to the kitchen, for milk and sugar, when the Captain took his first sip and grimaced.

Langon dragged his kitchen chair over to Gothmog’s end of the couch and settled with his own coffee and stack of cookies.  Having been upgraded from “Worthless Shit” to “Dimwit” and given a Task of Purpose, the Herald felt in excellent spirits.  He didn’t scoff even once as Rat went on - and on and on - about the condition of Mairon’s skin and the brightness of his eyes.

The Little Ones dragged out two boxes of cookies and a gallon of milk – which they drank straight from the bottle.

Eventually, even a passion such as Rat’s ran out of details over which to obsess.  Melkor had cleaned out His cookie box and finished a third cup of coffee.  Vole dozed despite that fact that he still sat straight as a little ramrod.

“ It’s not bad once you start dipping cookies in it.”  Gothmog commented to Langon.

“ Himself likes it strong.”  Langon agreed, “ I always pile in the sugar.  It’s a good thing we’re not mortals or we’d be so jacked up we’d have to go rob a bank or something.”

“ What is a bank?”

Before Langon could answer, a rarely heard set of chimes sounded their bright melody through the whole mansion.

“ Someone actually found the damned doorbell!”  Langon exclaimed in surprise.

“ I thought I enchanted that invisible.”  Melkor growled.  He lowered Rat to the floor.  “ Get Brother Dimwit money.”  She ran for the coat closet and its iron-bound strongbox.

Langon rose.  By the time he made it to the pocket doors, Rat reappeared with an armful of pound notes. 

“ Thanks.”  He shuffled them into a neat pile.  Rat gave a perfunctory bob.  Langon slid open the door and headed downstairs.

“ Captain,” Melkor half turned on His end of the couch.  “ Dispense with the dog.”

The Swarm gave a soft cheer.  And wanted to know if they could eat it.

“ I beg your indulgence, Master,” Gothmog started.  Melkor gave him a cold, flat look.  “ The Lieutenant has Intentions.” 

The Swarm booed.  Melkor’s expression turned thoughtful.  He waved His hand to indicate Gothmog should continue.

“ He wishes to find the animal’s home.”  Kosomot kept to himself that he had grown fond of those cheerful brown eyes and wagging tail.  

The Master had His dragons and Mairon his werewolves; clever, sentient, useful companions far superior to mere fire-sprites.  And not apt to vanish when the volcanoes eased into a dormant phase.

“ He requests I assist him.”  Not exactly a lie.  From the Lieutenant’s point of view, he was assisting the Captain.

Melkor’s lips twisted.

“ If the animal simply disappears, he will question the circumstance.  He will no longer trust me.”  Which was, after all, the important thing.

Melkor considered this.  “ Very well.  But keep the damn thing out of the house.  Your Lesser siblings dislike it.  And dog claws are hell on hardwood.”

“ Thank you, Master.” Kosomot bowed in his seat.

Langon reappeared in the open door.  He had a large paper bag in each arm.  The Little Ones cried, “ Noooodddlleessss!” with high glee.

“ Dinner, Master.”

The Vermin ran for plastic plates, plastic silverware, serving spoons, and the Master’s expensive red wine.

 

 

Mairon turned a tin over in his hand.  He squinted at tiny print.  “ I left my glasses in the car.  Umi, do you have yours?”

Faroula, scanning bags of dry kibbles down the aisle, reached into her purse and pulled out a little brown leather case.  Slipping free a pair of bifocals, she came to where Mairon stood with the carriage.

He held her glasses in front of the list of ingredients rather than put them on.  Giving a soft, “ Hmp,” he put the tin back in its slot.  He moved from brand to brand until he found one that met his approval.

Six went into the carriage.  Then he studied ingredient lists on kibble bags.  When he found a brand he liked, he picked up a five-pound bag and it, too, went into the carriage.

“ You get the big bag.”  Faroula pointed at the bottom shelves.

“ No, Umi.”  He handed back her glasses.  “ We’re not keeping the dog.  It’s in the rental contract.  No pets.”

“ You talk to this Mr. Bell.  You explain.”  He could charm birds from trees.  Faroula did not doubt he could charm the man on the top floor.  “ Kosomot keeps her in the day, you keep her at night when you get home.”

“ Umi, I usually don’t get home ‘til eight or nine.  That’s not fair to Kosomot, or the dog.”

“ Then you come home at six.  Like you should.”

“ I stay until I’m done.”

“ Dr. Aulë is a good man.  He will understand.”

“ I stay until I’m done, Umi.”

She gave a little hiss and waved a frustrated hand at him.

They moved through the grocery store.  At the Ethnic Section, the hissing and hand waving started again.  From both of them.

“ Only tinned chickpeas.  Tinned fava beans,” Mairon said with disgust.

“ Not even Naan,” Faroula exclaimed when there wasn’t flatbread to be found.  Compounded by the demoralizing lack of hummus in the low cold displays they’d perused earlier. “ And no za’atar.  Bah!”

“ I won’t be shopping here on a regular basis.”  Mairon announced.  They didn’t even have any decent loose leaf tea.  He said to his mother, “ We don’t need two gallons of whole milk and two bottles of honey, Umi.”

“ I make rice pudding.  When you were little you like rice pudding.”

After picking over the spice racks, he finally accepted defeat.  Going back, he took a few tins of chickpeas and fava beans.  “ We’ll have fúl medamas but no fresh pita for breakfast.”

Tomatoes, lettuce, onions, garlic, lemons, dates but no figs.  Sad, pale, tiny lamb chops, chicken thighs, and a pork loin.  Mairon bagged – meticulous and methodical - while the young man scanned their purchases.  He paid with his credit card.

After loading everything into the trunk, he said, “ We need food and water bowls for the dog and I want to get a Crockpot tonight.  We’ll need a casserole dish for your rice pudding.”

Oddly, Faroula said nothing as she looked over the receipt.

It was just past nine when they returned to the mansion.  Mairon put the Audi in park and climbed out to open the carriage house doors.  A motion-sensitive light flared to life inside the building.  Faroula watched him stop dead.  He tilted his head to one side.  Then he climbed back behind the wheel.

“ You’re not going to believe this.”  He said, pulling in beside a gleaming black car with an electric blue accent stripe.  He turned off the Audi.  Lifting his chin, he said,  “ Look at that.”

The black car screamed ‘Expensive!’ at the top of non-existent lungs.

“ That, Umi, is a Bugatti Chiron.  It’s one of the most costly sports cars on the market.”

Faroula hummed.

“ Two million pounds worth of sports car.”

Her eyebrows shot up.  “ For a car?  You tease Umi,”

“ I swear by the Rising Lord’s Shadow, it costs two million pounds.”

They stared at it.  Then they got out of the Audi to stare at it.

“ Ridiculous.”  Mairon pronounced.

“ This man Bell, maybe he does have as much money as the King.”

“ The King wouldn’t be seen dead in that.”  Mairon returned, “ A Constitutional monarch wouldn’t dare – there’s already too much controversy about getting rid of the royal family. Fictional elf-ancestry or not.  Don’t touch it, Umi, it must have an alarm system loud enough to wake the whole village.”  He pointed his key fob at the Audi to pop the trunk.

“ For two million pounds, it should wake the whole county.”  Faroula chuckled.  She gathered a handful of grocery bags and their leftovers from dinner.  “ It was a very nice restaurant but so expensive.”

Mairon smiled.  Leaning down, he kissed her temple.  “ I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

As he rummaged in the trunk, a whisper of sound filled the carriage house.  Paws and nails on wood.  The dog came down the stairs at the back of the old building.  Slowly at first, but then with greater speed as Mairon called, “ Hello, Little Miss, I have prezzies for a good dog.”

He pulled out the food bowl, the water bowl, and repacked the dog food – and a couple of soft toys – into a single bag.  He also sorted several other items into their own bag.  Grabbing it all, he came out of the trunk.

“ I’m going to take these to Kosomot.  Why don’t you unlock the flat and turn on the lights, Umi?”  He craned his head to look out the open door behind him.  Assuring himself that the stairs were lit and Faroula wouldn’t be climbing them in the dark.  Each landing sported an old-fashioned fixture and someone had fit them with spotlights.  The first and third landing lights glowed.  “ Did you bring your keys?”

The dog circled Mairon’s legs, poking her nose against his knee before she went to Faroula for a full petting.  Her tail swept lazily from side to side as the Haradi woman loved her up.

“ In my purse,” Faroula assured him.  After she’d given the dog a thorough welcome, she dug them out and showed him.

“ Leave the heavy bags for me,” He said before he summoned the dog with a click of his tongue.  As he started up the stairs, he called, “ Hello?  Kosomot, are you here?”

The gigantic redhead appeared above him.

“ You return.”

“ Indeed, I do.”  Mairon took the stairs two at a time.  The dog followed.

The flat consisted of two rooms.  The front combined kitchenette, eating area, and living area.  The back was a simple bedroom with a twin bedstead, a bookshelf, and a closet – complete with drawers – built into one wall.

Kosomot had given him a tour earlier and Mairon had noted the big man had little in the way of personal possessions. 

He’d had to reassess his opinion of the giant as a media nerd – there was no computer.  Not even a laptop.  But the bookshelf was jam-packed with hardcovers, paperbacks, folded maps, trade paperbacks, and what looked like some truly ancient socio-political pamphlets lace-bound with string.

There weren’t even sheets on the bed.

“ I bought dog food.”  He’d also brought the huge man a loaf of bread, a jar of Nutella and one of jam.  But he didn’t announce this fact.

He went about emptying his bags on the short length of kitchenette counter.  The dog watched with interest that turned to excitement when she saw the bag of kibbles.  She pranced at Mairon’s feet.

Kosomot, who’d stepped aside to let Mairon by, remained in place by the top of the stairs.  He watched with a strange, introspective smile.

“ You please her greatly.”  He observed.

Mairon pulled out the bowls.  He peeled their labels then gave them a wash and rinse in the small sink.  He looked down to find a plastic disposable plate on the floor beside the glass mixing-bowl Kosomot had turned into a makeshift water-bowl.  It was full and fresh.  That made up for the plastic plate.  Mairon took both off the floor.

“ What’d you feed her?”

“ We had Chinese.  She had noodles with chicken.”

“ You’ve never owned a dog, have you?”

“ No.  I have never had any pet.”  Fire-sprites did not count, Kosomot thought.  They surged and diminished with the volcano’s power and were not so defined as to have personalities or names.

Mairon popped open a tin.  He explained, “ Wet food once a day.  Morning or evening.  Your choice.  If she’s not a gobbler, leave out a bowl of kibbles.  If she is a gobbler, mix kibbles and wet food for the daily meal.”

He eyed the dog.  “ Maybe half a tin in the morning and the other half at night.  She’s a little thin.  I can’t stand people who think their dog’s ribs should show.”  He opened the kibbles.

He filled the new water bowl and, after wiping the bottom dry, set it down.  The dog gave it a couple of experimental laps.

“ Keep it clean and keep it filled.”  Mairon told the big man.  “ There should always be fresh water when she wants it.”  He measured out the kibbles by eye and mixed half the tin of wet food with them.  He added a little water to make gravy.

“ We don’t know what kind of food she’s used to, so this might upset her stomach.  I tried to buy the best, organic, grain-free variety the market offered but their supply was limited.  To say the least.  If she needs to go out, don’t make her wait.”

“ Understood.”

Mairon set down the food bowl.  “ Try this, sweetheart.”  He crouched there a moment.  Watching as the animal sniffed the food, gave it a lick, and decided she was game.  Crunching filled the kitchen.  Mairon stood back up.

“ Don’t feed her people food.  It’s not good for her and it ruins her taste for her kind.  I used to make my dog food from scratch.  If we can’t find her family, I’ll show you.”

“ You mentioned this earlier: finding her family.  How shall we go about it?”

Mairon liked this approach very much.  So straightforward.  His already favorable impression of Kosomot escalated.  Mairon decided to ask to borrow a book so he’d have an excuse to socially engage the other man again soon.

“ When I unpack and set up my printer we’ll snap a pic of Little Miss, make a flyer, and put them up.  On light poles, in the window of the shop down the road, and any place else that looks like a high traffic area.”

“ There is a place nearby,” Rat had shown it to him, “ Where children play.”  Kosomot hunted for the right word, “ A park.”

“ Excellent.”  Mairon nodded, “ Exactly.  Good thinking.  I haven’t had a chance to explore the area.”  The dog lifted her face from the bowl.  She’d cleaned it.  Licking her muzzle, she came to Mairon and poked his fingers with her nose.

“ Your eat is still on, isn’t it?”  He chuckled.  “ How about we work on the other end?”  He laid a hand on a box he’d deposited on the counter, “ Or maybe just one milk bone, hmm?”  He opened the box, “ For pudding.”  He’d bought the medium sized treats.  He offered one.  She took it daintily.  Then he dropped a half dozen more in his shirt pocket.  He closed the box.

“ Don’t feed her too many treats, but give her a few over the day.  Especially if you’re going to feed her at night.”

“ Understood.”  That brief, almost military, response again.  Mairon thought, ‘PTSD’.  He considered that Kosomot might be a retired soldier.

“ I saw that you have a copy of Wellesley’s biography by the Countess Longford,” Which would make sense if Kosomot were ex-military, “ May I borrow it?  I’ve always wanted to read it.”  He’d actually read it twice.  Once at Uni for a history course and again because he’d enjoyed it so much the first time.

“ Certainly!” Kosomot disappeared into his Spartan little bedroom for a moment.  He reappeared with the heavy, hardcover volume.  “ I enjoyed this.  He knew how to make the most of his forces.”

“ He rose from the ranks,” Mairon took the book, “ He’d seen it from both sides.  Thank you.  I’m a quick reader.  I’ll have it back soon.”  Tucking it under his arm, he said to the dog, “ Now, let’s see to your other end.  Want to go out?”

She raced to the top of the stairs and back three times before they had a chance to move.

“ Thought so.”  Mairon chuckled.  “ Peristaltic action.  What goes in must come out.  C’mon, precious, let’s water a bush.”

The motion-sensor light in the lower level came on as the dog raced down the stairs before them.  Faroula had left one large door cracked open and the dog kept going.  They followed her into the cool evening air.

She could be heard rustling through the shrubbery.  They chatted for a good ten minutes, easily despite the huge man’s odd syntax, before she returned.  She skirted right by them, through the door, and her nails clacked on the stairs.

“ Bedtime.”  Mairon smiled to himself in the dark.  “ I’ve always loved how pragmatic dogs can be.”

Kosomot, too, smiled unseen.  “ I bid you goodnight, Mairon.  I must now contend with ‘Little Miss’ for room on the bed.”

“ Best of luck, Kosomot.  Sleep well.”  Mairon watched him disappear into the carriage house.

Returning to his Audi, he unloaded the trunk.  Putting the Crockpot, a ream of printer paper, and several other purchases on the workbench, he overloaded himself with the groceries.

Faroula opened the kitchen door for him.  She slipped the book out from under his arm before he lifted the bags onto the island.

“ I put the meat away.”  She read the title, “ Don’t you have a copy of this?”

“ I lost it in the fire.  Four more trips, I think, and that’s everything.”  Faroula started unloading the bags.

Next, he brought up the microwave.  Then the Crockpot.  He cut both open, pulled them from their boxes, and set them on the counter.  Faroula had the ceramic Crockpot base in the dishwasher before he made it to the door.

 She wiped out the microwave and plugged it in.

Taking a soup bowl, Faroula half filled it with milk.  Added a generous dollop of honey and stirred it with a spoon.  Humming, she nuked the mix until it was warm.  She put the bowl on the pantry floor.

“ Come,” She spoke to the empty flat, “ Come and drink.  Sweet milk for you.  Fresh honey.  My boy, you smile on him.  You don’t hide his keys.  You don’t ring his phone in the middle of the night.  You are good to him.”  Then she said it all again in ‘Bandi.  Just to be sure.

Faroula shut the door on the bowl so the boy wouldn’t see it and scold her.

 

Mairon stacked a bag full of printer ink on the knife-block box.  Tucking both against his chest, he locked the Audi.  Listening up the stairs for a moment, he nodded at the silence.  Then he let himself out of the carriage house.

Mairon froze.  A black shadow loomed beside him.  He blinked furiously, trying to adjust his eyes to the dark.

“ Hello, Mairon Smith.”

That voice!  He knew that deep rumble despite the fact he’d only heard it once.  As his sight adapted, he made out the towering shape of the helpful fellow from the wine shop.  He realized he’d forgotten just how big this man, Bell, actually was. 

The same hot frisson sparked the length of his spine.  He felt his cheeks go hot.  His brain quarked.  Going up, down, top, bottom, charmed and strange all at once.  Nerve endings began to spark and fizzle.

“ It’s you.”  He breathed.

“ Yes.”

“ You own this p-place.”

“ I do.”

“ You play the p-piano.  Upstairs.” 

 _Oh, Rising LORD, I sound like an idiot!_ Mairon thought in fury and dismay.

“ I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“ N-not at all.  I l-love music.”  _I’m stammering!_

“ I’m glad to hear it.  Perhaps you’d like come up and listen one evening,”

“ That’s…very…kind…of…you,” He paced his words so he could get them out without stuttering or stumbling over the syllables.  Which only made him sound like a bigger idiot.  He drew a deep, calming breath.  “ Mr. Bell.”  There, his voice was steady.

“ Not at all.  I’m always happy to perform for the right audience.”

Was that a sexual innuendo?  Mairon wished he could see Bell’s face clearly instead of just this pale rectangle in the dim moonlight.  The very physical desire crawling along his skin, up his spine, _wanted_ it to be a sexual innuendo.  Wanted to know there was a reciprocating echo inside this towering mountain of a man.

The silence stretched far too long.  Bell finally broke it.  His deep velvet voice seemed part of the night, like the stridulations of the bush crickets and the rustle of leaves overhead.

“ Kosomot says you’re getting settled.”

“ Yes.”  That was safe.  “ Thank you.” Also safe.

“ If you need anything, I hope you’ll ask.”

 _Like hell,_ Mairon decided on the spot, _like high bloody rolling hell._   This was a complication he did not need.

He did not need this flutter in the pit of his stomach.  He did not need the pins and needles prickling along his skin.  Actually raising gooseflesh on his arms!  And he did not need the heat threatening to set his cheekbones on fire.

Thank the Lord Arising for the darkness!

“ Goodnight, Mr. Bell.”  Mairon managed cool and crisp.  Decades of experience in controlling his emotions, his reactions, came to his rescue: the residual benefit of being an eleven year old at University.  Always the odd one out.

He moved on automatic, not letting himself think, for the stairs.  A few steps up, he stopped and said, over his shoulder, “ Ridiculous car.” Instinctively.  He continued up to his kitchen door without looking back.

 

Melkor remained motionless watching that trim, tall figure march up and away.  The door closed firmly, decisively, but without a hint of a slam.  The second story landing went dark.

The Vala smirked in the night.  Smug and predatory.  He needed no light; he never had, to see in the dark.  He remembered well those wings of hot blush over high cheekbones.  Glowing like the embers of a dying fire.

The nearly imperceptible tremor as long fingers tightened around their burden.

And that perfectly modulated voice, smoother than silk and more luscious than fresh cream, cracking over simple words.

Ah, Mairon.  Proud, cunning, poised Mairon.  How he loathed any appearance of weakness or vulnerability.  Lashing out: against not only Melkor but also his own emotional reactions.

Opening salvo launched.

Melkor chortled with anticipation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So....my Mom has been in and out of hospital for the last three weeks. It's been very stressful here. Thankfully, Mom is finally home and it looks like it may stick. She's in good spirits, though tired, and now she can rest up and heal. (Because no one can rest in hospital - they wake you up to take vitals and its always noisy.)
> 
> A mouse managed to bang her way through these two chapters during the early mornings and late nights after the phone and texts quieted down. Four siblings and a large number of friends and cousins to keep updated after spending most of the day visiting Mom - this lil mousey is physically and emotionally exhausted. It also looks like mouse travel plans are indefinitely on hold.
> 
> Gentle readers, a mouse truly hopes these two chapters are up to snuff and that you enjoy them!


	18. Milk &  Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we find out why Faroula put that bowl on the pantry floor.
> 
> Mairon likes early mornings for the quiet and privacy.
> 
> Rat experiences True Terror.
> 
> Mairon suffers a couple of unpleasant realizations. You know what they say about assumptions - but under the circumstances, you can't blame Mairon. 
> 
> And now Melkor REALLY has His work cut out for Him.

July 24, 2018

 

**_Milk & Honey_ **

 

 

Rat assembled humanoid fana in Lord Mairon’s pantry.  Beyond the closed door, there was darkness and a swishing, mechanical rumble.  One pointed ear pressed to the wood, she listened but could make out no other noise.

The old woman and the master must be asleep.  But it was barely eleven o’clock. 

On the upper floor, the Swarm approached peak activity.  Funny movies and plenty of popcorn kept them occupied.  Langon, drinking whiskey from a big bottle, sprawled in his chair and waited upon Melkor’s smallest pleasure. 

The Herald had it easy tonight.  For the Master had left them briefly only to return in the highest spirits.  Now He rested both bare feet on the coffee table.  Lost in thought, He paid no mind to the movie.  A sly smirk lifted His lips and, on occasion, a soft, satisfied purr rose from His chest.

Below, Thuringwethil applied makeup with a deft and artful hand before she went a-hunting.  Her combat boots waited at the kitchen door.

It was time, Rat decided, to make another foray.  Little fingers went for the door latch.  As she stepped back, her heel touched cool ceramic.  Jumping, she twisted around.

A bowl sat on the floor behind her.  Her Umaia’s eyes perceived a liquid glimmer.  Nose working, she scented the old woman’s flesh.  And milk.  And…a familiar smell from ages past.  Honey.

Rat squatted, legs wide around the bowl, and took scent again.  Yes.  Mingled with the sweet, creamy scent of fresh milk and the tang of human touch, she smelled the distinctive delicate, floral scent of clover honey.

Settling on her knees, Rat went face-down into the bowl.  Slurping.  A shudder ran the length of her spine.  She pulled up not because she needed to breathe but to savor both taste and texture.  And lick a droplet off the tip of her nose.

Cleaning her chin with the back of her hand, she sucked the smear.  Little black tongue flicking in and out of her mouth, Rat hung over the bowl in a state of near ecstasy.

A wave of sorcery enveloped the small demon.  Whispered words, in two languages, reverberated and echoed in Rat’s preternatural ears. 

_“ Come and drink.  Sweet milk for you.  Fresh honey.  My boy, you smile on him.  You don’t hide his keys.  You don’t ring his phone in the middle of the night.  You are good to him.”_

Haradi’Bandi and Westron ran over and under each other but the intent was unmistakable.  Rat gave a faint cheep, agreeing to the spell’s imperative now that she’d accepted the offering.

Hazy euphoria.  Rat remained on her knees, drifting in pleasure with the reverberating invocation clouded around her.  A sweet chirrup whispered from her black lips.

The enchantment meshed with her Purpose: reinforced it with surprising potency despite mortal origins.  The elegance with which this sorcery and her Purpose dovetailed together…  Had she been in her right mind she would have been terrified at the implications.

A little past midnight, Vole found her in the exact same position.

He took one look into her euphoric face – usually so sharp and clever – and started to sniff at her.  Worried and suspicious, he shook her shoulder.

Rat gave him a dreamy grin.  She pushed the bowl of honey-milk towards him.

He regarded it with baleful black eyes.  Sniffed it, too, but refused to taste.

Much to his surprise, Rat encompassed him in both arms.  He usually instigated affectionate contact and this…this unsettled him.  Even more so when she nuzzled his cheek and licked his ear.

As lovely as it was…it wasn’t her way.  He reached out to shake her by both shoulders.  Staring intently into her hideous little face.

Rat rolled her eyes and shook her head at him.  She cuffed him upside one temple. 

There, that was more like it.

Vole deflated in relief.  He sniffed the milk and honey again.  Dipping a finger in the mix, he gave it an experimental lick.  Rat waited with an expectant expression.

Vole, too, went face-down into the bowl.  After he’d lapped up about half of what she’d left, he sank back onto his haunches.  He gave her the same dreamy grin she’d given him moments before.

Notes of sorcery rang about his head.  He listed to one side and sang a little, chittering song.

Again, the resonance between Purpose and spell meshed so perfectly, so elegantly, in a flawless union.  Unquestionable accord.

Rat reached out to pat Vole’s chest.  He tumbled backward in slow motion.  Lying on the pantry floor, he began to shape patterns in the air with splayed hands.  Rat looked at the last half inch of milk in the bowl.  Her little black tongue ran over thin black lips.

A heartbeat later, she fell into the milk.  Rat slurped up the last of the mix and licked the bowl clean.  Then she lay on the floor beside Vole and erupted with silent laughter.

Around one o’clock, the Vermin collected themselves and climbed to their feet.  Transforming into twin puffs of smoke, they flowed beneath the pantry door out into the dark, silent flat.

They took shape, as rodents, on the kitchen floor.  Vole, a little black puffball half Rat’s size, scurried with unimaginable speed out into the front parlor and down the hallway.  Rat, almost as quick, followed.

The master bedroom door stood open just a crack.  They slipped in.

Lord Mairon lay on the floor.  The top layers of his blanket pallet tossed aside to reveal he still slept naked.  Since there were no curtains, moonlight streamed through the windows onto the long lines of chest and thigh.  He looked unreal: a statue cast in palladium and copper.  

Until he snorfed in his sleep and rolled onto his side. 

Heat haze, just visible to preternatural eyes, shimmered off him.

Vole went directly for the closet.  Grey mist puffed and, humanoid, he sat inside the partially open pocket door.  Taking one of Mairon’s dress shoes in hand, he pulled a buffing brush from the ether.  Vole spat on the leather and put the brush to use.

Rat went for an outflung foot.  She stropped against Mairon’s arched sole.  Then she puffed into her humanoid fana.  Fussing with the blankets, she folded a section over his hips but he immediately threw it off.  He rolled over and tucked his face into the bent angle of his elbow.

Rat frowned and moonlit shadows made her face terrible to behold.  All black triangles and silver planes.  Vole gave a soft croon of appreciation.  She shook her head at him before she went to open the nearest window.  Just a crack.  A draught of night air flowed over the sill.

Mairon sighed with pleasure as the cool air reached him and, rolling on his back again, stretched out on his hard pallet.

Rat investigated the pile of laundry neatly folded on the floor.  Checking for missing buttons, loose seams, anything she could attend.  Finding that the casual, old shirt he’d worn today had a frayed collar, she summoned her sewing kit.  Plonking down on the floor next to the plain maple box, Rat took out a tiny seam ripper.  She tore out the offending collar, trimmed, and turned it.

Vole moved from one set of shoes to the next.  When he was done, he polished the buttons on Mairon’s bespoke suits.

Finding nothing more to do, they moved into the other bedroom where the old woman slept.  Her mattress lay on the floor.  She had a blanket under her and one over her.  And a pillow.

The Vermin took note of these details.  Not only did the Master cover her with His protection, their Lieutenant also put her comfort above his own.

Having no concept of what a parent was, they assumed the old woman held their Lords’ Favor because of her considerable skills in sorcery.

So, they polished her leather shoes, brushed her cloth running shoes, tightened up the buttons on her blouses, and fixed a loose seam on her travel bag.

At four am a series of shrill beeps startled the wits out them.  They thrust their tools back into the unseen over-plane and disbursed their flesh in bursts of dark smoke.  Then they hunted for the horrid racket.

Their search led them back to Lord Mairon’s bedchamber.  The foul din came from his mobile phone.  He sat up on the pallet with the device in hand.  A dip of one long finger and the maddening beeps stopped.

“ What is it?”  The old woman called through the walls.

“ Just my alarm.  Go back to sleep, Umi.”  He said as he climbed to his feet.

The old woman nestled back into her blanket and pillow.  Grumbling, “ Work at five, work at nine, foolish boy, you work your life away.”  Before she drifted back to sleep.

The incorporeal Vermin watched Mairon draw on a pair of loose shorts in the dark.  They followed him to the kitchen and watched him turn on a low light so he could make a pot of tea.

When he opened the dishwasher and started to empty it, Rat realized what the device was, and what it did.  She went wild.  Zipping into the machine, she explored its features.  She hovered over Mairon’s hands as he put away the plates, cups, and silverware.  The Crockpot insert was an epiphany for her glossy picture did not show that it came out of its base.

Her shadow nestled right up against his chest.  A song of boundless esteem vibrated through her molecules.  Was there no end to what this Superior Maia could teach his siblings?  Of course not, for he was, indeed, The Admirable!  And Favorite of the Greatest, most powerful Vala ever conceived for just this - this infinite cleverness and adaptability!

Vole skirted around the kitchen in a state of fond amusement.  Where his companion’s crush on the Balrog Captain annoyed and threatened him, her adoration for their Lieutenant was proper and right.  He listened to her vibrate on - and on and on - with pleasure.

Lord Mairon had, after all, always patted Vole’s head with approval after the Lesser Umaia polished and oiled both his and Melkor’s suits of armor.

The lord poured his steeped tea.

When he opened his laptop and turned on his portable WiFi hotspot, Rat hovered between his face and the screen.  Her thrilled vibration intensified if that were possible.

Unlike the dishwasher, she’d never before seen a laptop. 

Unknown to the Vermin, Langon made a point to leave his in the car.  Not because of his extensive porn collection but he didn’t want his siblings to realize that the internet was a vast marketplace capable of maxing out his credit cards in a single, frenzied night.

Melkor collected rents and house sale profits with rapacious alacrity but was notoriously sluggish when it came to disbursing wages and commissions.

Rat trilled with silent amazement as pictures of cars flashed before her.  As table sets complete with chairs followed one after another on the screen.  Couches, end tables, carpets, bookshelves, pots and pans, bakeware, curtains – so many things!  Lord Mairon shifted occasionally from foot to foot as he searched and drank two cups of tea.

He also summoned pages that were full of words.  He read them and made those which displeased him disappear.  Sometimes he summoned a blank page.  Then his fingers flew over the little buttons and words magically filled the screen.

Rat read the keyboard for the first time and realized what it was.  So much faster than quill, ink, and parchment!  When he turned to pour himself a third cup of tea, Rat tapped out a simple word or two.

To her awe “ thread” and “ needles” summoned images of sewing kits.

 

 

“ What the hell?”  Mairon muttered when he returned to his browser.  Sewing kits?  Where had they come from?

He went back to his email.  Then he growled, “ Don’t send me cock shots.  What the fuck do you not understand about ‘not looking for sex’?  I don’t give a shit if you have two dicks.” 

He glided out of the kitchen, pausing at the end of hall, to listen for any sign of Faroula stirring.  Nothing.  Not a sound.  Safe time to login and clean up his messages.  He clicked on the link that brought him to his recently reactivated account on BDSM.com.

 

 

Rat, confronted with graphic images of erect male genitalia, contracted into a mass of motionless, silent atoms.  The Master wouldn’t like this.  Himself became furious when other Umaiar admired Lord Marion a little too long.  These were mere humans: small, purple-red and…small. 

The Master wouldn’t like this at all!

 

 

Mairon went to his profile and retyped the “Interests” section in all caps. 

Then he looked critically at his profile picture.  Picking up his phone, he snapped a shot of his bare chest from below the chin line.  He stopped to adjust the little gold hammer he wore on a gold chain – which might denote him a devotee of Aȝūlēz Craeftfrea’s Temple.  

But tiny obsidian chips, barely visible to a naked eye, indicated otherwise.  The talisman of the great Smith was nearly identical to that of the Rising Lord except for those two minuscule black dots.

Mairon deleted the first picture and snapped another shot.  He edited it for light enhancement then logged into his account from his phone.  Uploading the new profile pic, he sipped his tea and looked at a bunch of fresh messages on the laptop.  One was titled, “ You never called back.”  

He cursed under his breath, “ Shit.”  Mairon opened it.  Sure enough:  Marcus.  Marion cursed again.

 He’d snapped his previous profile shot in his parent’s bathroom mirror: it showed his freshly washed hair flowing down his back.  Obviously, Marcus had recognized the distinctive white burn scar on his shoulder and his long, dark red hair.

Mairon checked his phone to make sure the new picture didn’t show a strand of hair.  Pity.  It was his best feature.

Marcus knew he was being replaced.  He wasn’t happy.  He politely reminded Mairon that they still had an active, unbroken contract.  If Mairon wasn’t comfortable coming to Marcus’ flat, would he attend this month’s Munch and discuss the situation?

While he considered what response to send Marcus, he deleted a dozen cock shots and blocked their senders.  He certainly wasn’t interested in anyone who wouldn’t read his profile.

He closed the phone browser and typed replies to the two or three messages that showed promise.  Professional Doms who had actually read what he’d written and offered contractual services and references.

 

Rat coiled over, under, and in on herself.  Vibrating with dismay, disbelief, and, yes, terror, she hovered before the laptop screen.  Shamelessly watching every keystroke and reading every word.

Vole, feeling her dark change of mood, hid in the sink drain.

Rat’s energy spiked with panic when she saw Lord Mairon engage with the mortals…what could he be thinking?  The Master wouldn’t stand for it.  Rat could not even imagine His reaction.  Truly terrible would only be a fraction of it.  Melkor possessed a cataclysmic temper.

Vole’s terror set the water pipes vibrating under the sink.

 

 

Mairon looked up when the kitchen plumbing began a pressure hum.  Must be air somewhere in the pipes.  The flat had been unoccupied and the water unused for months, according to the estate agent, Lang.  It wasn’t too much of a concern.  He made a mental note to bleed the pipes.  Then he considered that he and Kosomot could do it together – it would be a perfect bonding opportunity.

 

Rat swirled across the room to the kitchen sink.  She collected Vole’s energy from the drain – which stopped the pipe humming – and towed him along with her to the nearest air duct.  They flowed back upstairs to the Master’s flat and emerged in the spare bedroom.

She assembled flesh.  Face bent to the floor, she gave him a warning look from under her black brows before she settled at her sewing machine.  Hunched over it, she began tailoring one of Langon’s blazers. 

Vole, still incorporeal, hid in the closet.

 

Mairon decided not to reply to Marcus’s message just yet.  He logged out of his account and turned his attention to breakfast. 

First, he prepared a pan in which to boil three eggs.  It went onto one gas burner inset in the island-top.  Wrapping yesterday’s leftover pita in aluminum foil, he turned the oven to low. 

After leisurely chopping onion, garlic, cucumber, a small tomato, and some fresh parsley into neat little piles, he squeezed a lemon and got out olive oil, a bottle of ground cumin, and one of paprika.

In a second pan, he sautéed the garlic and onions in a splash of oil until they softened and their aroma filled the kitchen.  Next, he opened two tins of fava beans, draining one and mashing its contents with a fork.  Added both into the garlic and onions and let it all heat as he carefully lowered the eggs into the boiling water.

Mairon hummed under his breath.  As the eggs came back to a boil, the fava beans began a gentle bubble.  He popped the wrapped flatbread in the preheated oven before he mixed a generous helping of oil, lemon juice, a good pinch each of cumin and paprika into the beans. 

After six minutes, he pulled the eggs and used the remaining hot water to warm a thick ceramic serving bowl.  The eggs, he peeled and cut into wedges.  Their yolks were still a soft, deep orange-yellow: perfect. 

He turned off the heat under the bean mix.  Pouring the water out of the serving bowl, he gave it a swipe with a hand-towel and plated the fúl.  A little more oil over the top and then he garnished it with the chopped cucumber, tomato, and parsley.  He finished by laying the eggs artistically around the edge of the bowl.

Mairon got down the second mug and filled it with tea.  He checked the time on his phone and found it to be a little after seven.  She wouldn’t kill him for waking her, so he brought the mug to Faroula’s room and gave a soft knock.

“ Umi, breakfast.”

She was up.  She opened the door and reached out for her tea.  Faroula had brushed her hair and donned her bathrobe.

“ I used your bathroom, it was closer.”  As she moved past him into the hallway.

He followed her back to the kitchen.  Considered that he really needed to get chairs today so she’d have somewhere to sit other than the floor or the mattresses.  A couple of folding beach chairs if nothing else.

He pulled the warm pita bread from the oven and cut it into wedges.  They ate on their feet.

“ We should be on our way by nine at the latest.” They had an appointment in town at ten this morning to look at Skodas and another appointment at two pm at a Renault dealership.

Mairon wanted Faroula to end up with an Audi much like his own but he knew he’d have to lead her carefully.  She’d already decided they cost too much.  He knew what he had to do – compare everything she test-drove unfavorably against his car.  And get her in his driver’s seat.

They talked and ate.  He told her he’d emptied the dishwasher as she drank her second cup of tea.  “ I’ll shower first then I’ll pop out and see if Kosomot’s awake.  The bedroom sets, Harvard frames, and bookshelves should arrive today.”  He opened his phone and checked his email, “ And the cookware I ordered from Le Creuset.  I really need to pick parlor furniture and a desk.”

“ Sheets for the beds.”  Faroula added, “ And curtains.  The moonlight comes directly into the bedrooms.  I dreamt of jinn all night.”

Mairon, too, had dreamt of spirits.  And he’d woken to find one of his windows open – just a crack.  He knew he hadn’t touched it…unless he’d started sleepwalking again. 

He said nothing.  On principle, he couldn’t engage Faroula on this subject.  They’d been at odds over it since he was eleven or twelve.  Upsetting her would be counterproductive when he wanted to influence her choice of cars.  They equaled each other in stubborn.

“ Go shower.  I’ll clean up.”  She poured herself a third cup of tea.

“ Drink that outside, sit on the landing,” he urged her, “It’s a lovely morning and I’m sure the dew has burned off by now.  Leave the dishes to soak.  We’ll wash-up later.”

He closed down his laptop and, after stacking the dishes and pans in the sink, filled them with hot water.  Faroula headed for the door with tea in hand.  Mairon went to wash and dress.

Half an hour later, he poked a wet head out the kitchen door to find Faroula chatting with Kosomot without concern for her bathrobe and slippers.  The dog crunched a milk bone at the old woman’s side.

“ Rhonee loves dogs.  If he didn’t work so much I know he would keep his own.”

“ I moved the shampoo and conditioner to the guest bathroom.”  He came out onto the landing.  He figured he was in time to spare Kosomot half his life story.  “ And the towels.”  They’d washed and dried the three from his boxes along with the blankets yesterday afternoon.  After he’d run a load with the contents of his travel bag.  Which still stunk of weed.

“ Ah, I go now.”  Faroula took the hand Kosomot offered as she rose.

“ You’ll be out all day.” The giant redhead had obviously been given their whole schedule.

“ Umi’s here to get a new car.”  Mairon leaned his elbows on the railing and looked contentedly over the wide, green, private yard.  His wet mane fell forward and dampened the pockets of his dress shirt.  Good trousers and bare feet, he intercepted the dog before she could get fur on the former and step on the latter.  Petting her, he greeted with mock-solemnity, “ Good morning, Little Miss, I hope you didn’t hog the whole bed.”

“ She slept on my head.” Kosomot grinned.  “ Above it,” he amended.  “ We may both be more comfortable if I remove to the floor.”

“ That would be a mistake.”  Mairon cautioned, “ She’ll think she runs the household and she’s not equipped for it.  She can’t pay the bills.  Or buy food.  Consistency is key.  Put her at the foot of the bed and keep putting her at the foot of the bed. 

Don’t let her run out the door ahead of you – always put her behind you and go first.  Then she’ll know you run things.  Believe me, she’ll be relieved.  It’ll take a lot of stress off her.  Many people make that mistake with their dogs.  It’s unkind to them, really.”  Giving both ears a gentle rub. “ Are you thinking of keeping her?”  Very quietly.

“ I may not.” Kosomot returned in an equally soft voice.  “ Mr. Bell is adamant – no pets.”

Mairon went back into the kitchen for a moment to grab his phone.  He crouched down to get a couple of shots of the dog as she stood with them on the landing.  One turned into an excellent close-up of her nose.  She’d sniffed the phone.

“ Fish tank,” Mairon muttered under his breath, in stubborn rebellion, “ I may look into getting a fish tank.  Or hamsters.  Gerbils.  Mice.”  Last night’s little encounter still irked him.  Mostly for his own unwanted reaction to Bell’s sheer, physical presence.  Why did he have to embody every trait Mairon found desirable in a lover?  Dark hair, muscular build, alert, intelligent eyes and large, capable-looking hands.  What a major inconvenience!

Marion rose to his feet as realization struck.  “ Fuck.” Under his breath.  He owed Bell.  He owed Bell a bottle of wine and a meal.  Fuck.

“ What?” Kosomot’s antiquated vocabulary encompassed that word.  “ What’s wrong?”

“ Nothing.  It’s not important.”  Mairon demurred.  He looked over the pics he’d snapped of the dog and deleted two in which she’d moved.  “ I’ll have to make up the flyers tonight.  Umi will want to go to Temple this evening no matter how tired she is.  We won’t return ‘til after dark.  Tomorrow you and I can take a walk around – hit the corner shop at the end of the road and check out the park.”

Kosomot nodded.  He didn’t seem in much hurry to divest himself of the dog, even if he was resigned to not keeping her.  A rare case of Mairon-approved procrastination. 

Mairon stepped back inside to grab his billfold from the counter.  Need a nice bowl to hold his keys and wallet.  Taking out a hundred pound note, he folded it so the amount didn’t show and took it outside.

Passing it over to the giant redhead, he said, “ I’ve got four or five deliveries today.  Would you make sure they get safely inside?”

Kosomot looked at the folded bit of paper without apparent comprehension.  But he readily responded, “ Of course.  And thank you for the bread and spreads – I tried the dark one this morning.  I enjoyed it.”

“ You’re very welcome.  Nutella on toast, with tea, got me through my first year when I moved out of my parents’ house.”  Mairon said, “  I survived on it.  The student flat had a horrible little cubby for a kitchen and I was too busy to cook most of the time.”

“ On toast!” An epiphany for Kosomot, it seemed.  “ It would melt."

“ Indeed it does.”  Mairon, deadpan, nodded.

Above them, the door on the third landing opened and closed.  Both looked up.  Mairon was taken aback to see the estate agent, Harry Lang.  Kosomot did not seem at all surprised.  Mairon surreptitiously checked the time on his phone:  quarter past eight.

 _And Bell made a pass at **me** last night!_   The indignant thought caromed in his mind, unbidden.  He squashed it fast and hard.  It smacked too much of jealousy – that had to be nipped in the bud!

“ Shit, it’s bright.”  Lang fumbled in his jacket pocket and struggled to jerk out a pair of sunglasses.  Dark brown hair mussed in complete disorder.  Clothes rumpled.  He jammed the glasses over his eyes.

When he thumped heavily down the stairs, the stink of stale whiskey wafted down with him.

“ Ho, that’s powerful.”  Kosomot waved one hand before his nose.

Mairon recoiled.

“ I should have stopped after the first bottle,” Lang growled as he continued past them.

Mairon stared in outright shock.  The first bottle?  Damn!

“ I’ll be back this evening.  If you need anything, have her call me.”  Lang growled over his shoulder.

Her?  Mairon assumed he meant the Card Lady on the ground floor.

“ I will.  Thank you, br…friend.” Kosomot called after him.

Mairon noted the strange pause.  He said nothing.  He also noted that the dog tucked herself up against Kosomot’s calf in an effort to avoid Lang and stay out of his way.  Nothing like the happy, friendly approach he and Faroula received.  But then, dogs knew.  Their instincts were reliable.

Lang slid himself into the sleek little convertible parked up by the end of the long driveway and, a minute later, he was gone.

“ Boredom is unkind to him,”  Kosomot remarked casually to Mairon.

“ Whiskey is unkind to him.”  Mairon muttered, “ Especially if he drinks it a whole bottle at a time.”  He was **not** jealous.  Bell could sleep with whomever he chose.  And if he chose to fuck an alcoholic employee, Mairon could write off that huge, rich, handsome bastard all the faster.

“ How many deliveries are you expecting today?”  Kosomot asked.

Mairon checked his email on his phone.  During the interim, two more delivery notifications had arrived.  “ Six.  Two bedroom sets – headboards, footboards, and nightstands.  They’re the biggest.  Harvard frames from the same company.  Why they’re coming separately, don’t ask me.  A pair of bookshelves.  Cookware.  China.  The media cabinet for my sound system.  I’m going to spend most of tomorrow assembling furniture.”  Good thing he had his father’s spare toolbox in his trunk.

The dog’s bottom began a happy wiggle.  Faroula poked her head out of the kitchen door.  “ I am ready.  Eight-thirty.”  She made a point of letting him know _she_ was on time.

“ I just need to tie back my hair and slip on some shoes,”  Mairon told her.  Excusing himself to Kosomot, and giving the dog a final pat, he went into the flat.

When they departed, not five minutes later, the giant and the dog were playing fetch on the grass with one of the soft toys Mairon had bought the night before.  He noted that the huge man held onto the dog as the Audi backed down the drive.

‘ What kind of jerk won’t let a lonely, retired veteran keep a damned dog?’  Mairon asked himself before he turned out onto the quiet road.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A mouse is sitting here contemplating how Melkor's going to get past the negatives Mairon's silently stacking against Him... the Dark Lord is going to need some uber-sexy tricks to stick up His sleeve, or down His trousers....as needs arise. Lol, all pun intended. She's chewing on her claw-tips trying to think how His Dreadful Darkness is going to get that uptight Maia hot and bothered enough to crack...
> 
> Ah, Gentle Readers, a mouse sincerely hopes these latest humble offerings please you, tickles your humour, and bring you pleasurably forward in this long and complex story! <3!
> 
> (A mouse has started lurking on Tumblr as she gears herself up to human interactions.)


	19. Part One: What Personal Boundaries?     Part Two: Under Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kosomot dutifully attends to Mairon's deliveries but Melkor interferes. The Captain realizes that not only is Melkor a little OCD but something is wrong in the Dark Vala's Household. The Vermin are nervous and keeping more than a low profile.
> 
> Operating under too much stress for too long, Mairon suffers a migraine. Faroula, seeking to help, enlists the aid of Mairon's new landlord. After a good look at the mysterious Mr. Bell, she decides help comes in many forms.
> 
> The little black shadow that emerged from Melkor's mirror/portal sees its chance and returns to Melkor's Domain.

August 11, 2018

 

_**Part One: What Personal Boundaries?** _

 

“  _You_ take it upstairs,”

Melkor, just tucking His favorite violin under His chin, stopped as preternatural hearing picked up this gruff, unfamiliar voice.

“ You are paid, I understand, to deliver.  Deliver.”  The Captain.

“ I’m not paid to lug ’em up _two_ flights of stairs.”

Melkor handed the violin to a nearby Little One.  Four arms held the instrument in the air with utmost caution.  He passed over the bow.  With a rattling groan and a quick molecular modification, it projected a fifth arm from its chest.

As the Master of the Household disbursed His fundamental elements, it occurred to Him that He had not yet seen either Vermin this morning but the thought flitted away as He manifested in the downstairs hallway.

From the dark depths of the front hall, Melkor observed the distractive confrontation.

A barrel-chested human male stood outside the open front doors.  The Captain stood just within.  The source of their dispute, six large cardboard boxes, stood haphazard around the human.  He held the handle of a wheeled transport device off to one side.

“ This says,” Gothmog held a piece of paper, “ you are to deliver and assemble.  How can you assemble if you do not deliver?”

The human scowled.  “ It doesn’t say I have to lug ’em up another flight of stairs.  I have hundreds of packages to get out today,” He glared into the foyer.  The Vala’s energy caught his attention.  Bug-eyed, he fell silent.  His face went from ruddy anger to pale shock.

A gaping mouth worked without words.  He perceived Melkor as an amorphous black shade, an opaque shadow of vaguely human outline, hovering deep in the dim hallway.  It possessed no visible eyes but he could feel its gaze.  His skin prickled with bone-chilling cold.  Teeth chattered.  He clamped his jaw.

When he could speak, “ Wh-what the f-fuck is th-that!  D-do you see _that_?”

Kosomot felt the Master behind him.  He half turned and dipped his head.  The Captain looked around at the deliveryman.  His lips curved in a sly smile, “See what?”

“ Holy shit,” the human whispered.  Completely forgetting about his dolly, he stumbled back from the doorway.

Melkor, attention focused on the device, moved forward.  He knew of wagons, of course, and wheelbarrows, but the dolly was new to Him.  Its practicality appealed.  His manifestation thickened with matter and arctic air blasted from assembling molecules.

The human gave a guttural moan.  Breathe ripped out in a long whine.  He bolted.  Flinging himself down the front stairs, he ran to the big, brown truck parked in front of the mansion.

Melkor solidified into a featureless obsidian form as the truck squealed away from the curb and careened down the street.

Kosomot chuckled under his breath.

“ Grab that,”  Melkor commanded.  Glistening black fangs flashed, “ I want it.”  He settled into his customary humanoid fana.

The Captain picked up the heavy metal dolly and brought it into the house.  Tucking it beside the open door, he nodded at the large cardboard boxes.

“ He was supposed to bring those to the Lieutenant’s flat and assemble them.”

Melkor nodded.  The boxes disappeared.  A dull thud echoed in the second story.

“ Ah.”  Kosomot shut the front door.  “ Thank you, my Lord.”

“ What are they?”  Melkor asked.

Gothmog consulted the invoice.  “ Nightstands, bureaus, and bedsteads, Master.  Headboards and footboards.  Something called Harvard frames arrived earlier.  And other things called box-springs.  Those mortals carried them up without a qualm.”

Melkor growled, “ Humans are an unpredictable pain in the ass.”  He disappeared in another eddy of freezing wind and smoke.  _Attend me, Captain_.  His projected thought slammed through Kosomot’s head.

The summons came from the second story flat.  Digging the brass key ring out of his jeans’ pocket, Kosomot took the stairs three at a time.

He let himself in the locked front door to find the Master pulling a wooden panel through heavy cardboard as if it didn’t exist.  A packet of plastic-encased paper slapped onto the floor.  A second packet landed, with a metallic jingle, beside it.

Several of the Swarm popped into existence around the Dark Vala.  One scooped up the first packet and ripped it open.  Unfolding instructional diagrams, the Little One looked at them without comprehension.  It let them fall.  Papers scattered everywhere. 

A moment later, it pressed the plastic over its mouth hole and blew hard to create a series of rude, shrill squeals.  Its siblings, finding this riotously funny, cackled and clapped.

“ You,” Melkor’s eyes flickered to one of the Swarm.  They fell silent. “ Fetch my tool kit.”  Then to another, “ Sort that hardware.”  To Gothmog, “Captain, where are those frames?”

Kosomot grinned.  “ In the big bedroom, Master, with the box-springs.”

Melkor, leaving the box intact, pulled a second wooden panel through its cardboard.  He freed the other bedroom set in the same manner.  Kicking aside both empty containers, Melkor looked at the wooden components.

“ Simple enough.”  Melkor easily lifted one set and carried them into the smaller bedroom.  Gothmog followed.  He watched Melkor shift aside the mattress on the floor with one foot.  “ Captain, fetch a frame.”

“ Yes, Master.”  The Balrog grinned.  It wasn’t often one was allowed the privilege of watching Melkor at work.

 

 

The Master’s Song rang in the Lieutenant’s quarters.  A wordless tune.  It drew Thuringwethil up the stairs.  Her soul resonated with each deep note.  Like a moth to flame, it summoned her.

The vampiress crawled across the landing and peeked through the open pocket door.

“ That’s a bolt, not a screw, you idiot,” Melkor rapped one of the Swarm on the head with the handle of His screwdriver.  It collapsed onto its arse.  The Master picked up a little piece of metal, “ This is a screw.  See the threading?  Where is your sister?  She would know.  Mairon taught her well.  Pay attention.”

The Master sat on the floor surrounded by tools and hardware.  Half a dozen lesser siblings attended Him.  The Captain held two pieces of wood together at a forty-five-degree angle.  Melkor waved His screwdriver over the hardware.

“ Bolts, nuts, flathead screws, Phillips head screws, hex key screws,” pointing at individual groupings, “ door hinges.  Pay attention.”  He resumed the wordless Song as He fit the screw and twisted it home.

Kosomot, elated, hummed along.

‘Wethil clutched the door edge and bit back soft, nearly frantic, giggles.  Oh so very long since their Lord evinced such good humour!  The lamia, too, crooned in time with Melkor’s Song.

 

 

Kosomot had never realized how much simple pleasure the Master took in assembling things.  Melkor had treated each piece of Mairon’s new furniture as a puzzle in need of solution.

To compensate for leaving Little Miss alone most of the day, the Captain walked her an extra loop this evening.  Three turns through the neighborhood. 

Little Miss flopped onto the grass.  Tired but satisfied, she panted at him.  Kosomot, opening the carriage house door, looked at her.

 “ No sup?” he asked.

The dog stretched out on her side and half rolled to show him her belly.  He went back to where she lay.  Sinking to one knee, he stroked her fur.  She kicked one hind paw lazily against his bent leg before wedging it into his thigh.

“ I’ll bring sup down, and water,” he rumbled, “ then we shall play kill the duckie, hmm?”  But he knelt there and rubbed her tummy for several minutes.  When he rose, she scrambled to her feet.  “ Sup inside?  As you will, my four-footed lady.” he chuckled.

After she’d eaten and drunk, they returned.  She watered one bush and squatted beneath another at the far end of the spacious garden.  Then they played a lazy game of whip the soft duck toy back and forth.

When Langon arrived, they sat together in the grass.  The dog, half in the Captain’s lap, enjoyed a prolonged ear-rub.  Little Miss took one look at the Herald, abandoned her stuffie, and headed through the open carriage house door.

“ Why you bother with that thing is beyond my ken,”  Langon grumbled as he carried a dozen white paper bags up the stairs.

“ Mind your own concerns and leave me to mine, Brother.” Kosomot advised.  He, after all, enjoyed Superior Rank.  He could do as he pleased.

“ ‘Wethil called.  Said the Little Ones were making a fuss,” Langon paused on the third story landing and held out the bags.  “ So I brought dinner.  Nuggets and fries for them, fish and chips for us, and steak for Himself.”

“ Very good, Herald.  I will join you presently.”

Langon, expression acidic, made a little bow.  He approached the door.  One of the Swarm flung it open.  Kosomot heard a shrill chitter-chatter of complaint before the door slammed closed.

Instinct flared to life.  Something was not right.

First, he checked on the dog.  Little Miss stretched out on his bed.  He moved to pat her head, and she licked his hand.  Then she settled in for a snooze.

“  I will return and we will have our last walk of the day.”  He promised.  Her tail thumped the bare mattress thrice, but she didn’t open her eyes.

When he entered the Master’s parlor, he found the Little Ones grumbling over a bowl of chicken nuggets.  Langon, seated on the carpet amid them, ate batter-coated lumps of white meat with his fingers and ignored their discontent.

Two Styrofoam boxes waited on the coffee table.  Langon pointed at one with a greasy finger, “ Your’th,” he said around a mouthful.

“ Where is Himself?”

Langon gulped his bite, “ Shower.”

The TV ran with muted sound.  Something dark, lit by shadowed moonlight, played on the screen.  No one really watched it, Kosomot noted.

The Captain looked over the Swarm.  As he suspected, the Vermin were suspiciously absent.  Moving into the hall, he dug a folded bit of paper from his front pocket.  The one Mairon had given him this morning.

From the master bedroom, he heard Melkor, who’d been full of song all day, still singing as He showered.  The Captain shot an unsettled glance at the half-closed door at the end of the hall.

He stepped into the spare bedroom.  At first, he saw nothing of note.  Rat’s little sewing machine sat silent.  There was a swathe of pristine white linen spread over the bed.  A tumble of brightly colored cloth lay inside the open closet door.  No, nothing to note…but then his eye perceived Vole, incorporeal, hiding in the closet depths—an opaque shade amid the shadows

The white linen jerked and twitched down on the far side of the mattress.  Kosomot unfolded the bit of paper and stepped into the room.  He rounded the bed.

Rat sat on the floor between bed and wall.  She squeezed her lower lip in her fangs.  Dried blood crusted, swollen flesh.  Her needle flashed, faster than his now mortal eyes could follow, with manic speed.

He recognized the white garment: one of the ankle-length, pleated skirts that Mairon wore low on his lean hips.  A dramatic and sensual piece designed for Court.  No eye could miss him in the crowd.

Rat, trimming it with twists of gold and copper thread, did not look up.  Her stitches raced along the hem.

“ Hail, little Sister.” Kosomot murmured.

Not lifting her eyes, she stitched faster.

“ No sup tonight?”

Her brow furrowed.  She wrinkled her nose.  Jerking a new length of hem into reach, her speed increased.  Rat unbit her lip long enough to whistle a command before clamping it again.  Fresh blood welled forth, and she sucked it into her mouth.

Vole assembled flesh.  He tossed several garments together in a stack.  Rushing out, he all but threw them at the Captain before he returned to the closet and dissolved back into a transparent shade.

Kosomot found himself clutching a ball of clothes.  A pair of jeans, at least one pair of trousers, and several shirts jumbled together.  She’d tailored other discards from Melkor’s wardrobe for him before but never so many at once.

As the Captain stared into the closet after Vole, he realized the hangers were full of clothes in Mairon’s preferred colors—a line of earthen tones punctuated by stripes of rich bronze, copper, and gold.

“ What’s amiss?”  He whispered.

Rat whined.  Hissed when she reached the end of her twisted thread and realized there were several inches of hem left to trim.  Throwing back her head, she let go a puff of frustrated smoke and gnashed her fangs.  Thrusting the cloth from her lap, Rat banged her open palms against the wall beside her.

“ Wait, wait,” he used the only distraction he had, “ tell me what this is, if you please, little Sister?”  He held out the paper Mairon had given him.

Knowledge hit his mind like a tiny electric shock but he didn’t understand, “ A hundred pounds of what?”  Another tiny electric shock, “ Money?  Is that like gold coin?”  Those he understood though he’d never had need of them.

Rat clicked in affirmation.  She made a questioning gesture.

“ Marion gave it me,”

That set her off again.  Rat flipped onto her hands and knees.  She scrambled into the corner behind her and tried, while still solid, to penetrate the wall.  Her forehead smacked against the wallpaper.  For a moment, she reeled backward.

“ Where are my Vermin?”  Melkor shouted from the parlor.  His voice still brimmed with good humour.  “It’s time for supper and the news.”

Rat squealed and clutched her head.  Dis-corporating in a violent plume, she shot into the wall.  Vole whipped under the bed and followed.

“ Fuuuuck.” Kosomot groaned under his breath.  He sent a trace of thought out after them.  They exited into Mairon’s flat below.

The Captain monitored the Vermin as he made his way back to Melkor’s parlor.  He knew when Rat, finding dishes in Mairon’s sink, washed up and Vole dug into the box of pots and pans Melkor had moved from Mairon’s parlor onto the kitchen counter.

Kosomot realized he’d seen the stalwart Vermin in such a state before.  When Mairon had lost Melkor’s Favor by surrendering Tol-in-Gauroth to Doriath’s mongrel spawn.

The Captain could hardly bear to think of that time.  How, without Mairon’s steadying Influence, the Master had succumbed to His Silmaril induced madness.  Too late, Mairon reclaimed his Rightful Place.  Too late—far too late—to coax Melkor back from the brink of destruction.  His Final Defeat.  Their Master’s Great Cause lost…

Kosomot freed one hand and rubbed the center of his chest.  His heart stopped dead then skipped a beat as if it once again felt the point of elf-forged steel.  He paused at the end of the hall.  Melkor turned to look at him over the back of the couch.

“ Your fish is cold.”  Langon growled from his spot down with the Swarm

“ It’s time for sup and the news.  Where are my little monsters?”  Melkor asked.

Kosomot steeled himself.  This was now and he would do his best to ensure that history did not repeat itself.

“ They attend Mairon’s comfort.”

“ Ah, well,”  Melkor actually gave a philosophical wave of one hand, “ That’s why I gave them to him.  Dimwit,” to Langon, “ your sister fulfills her Purpose.  Fetch coffee.”

“ Yes, Master.”

Kosomot folded up his hundred-pound note and tucked it back in his pocket.  He dumped the pile of clothes on a free edge of the sideboard and rounded the couch to scoop up whatever in hell “fish and chips” were.

 

 _ **Part Two: Under Pressure**_  

 

By the time Faroula pulled into the driveway, Mairon’s head felt as if it might actually split and spill out his brain.  He wanted nothing more than a quick death.  It would be a blessed relief.

Too many test drives, too many sales reps who thought they were so bloody clever, and a parade of over-priced cars. 

They’d skipped lunch.

Around two, he’d become aware of pressure building behind his eyes.  More test drives, more assholes.  And he felt the familiar tension twinge at the base of his skull.

Then, they’d argued about the Card Lady on their way to a local Service:

“ … don’t give her any money.  Once these con artists taste cash, they,”

“ She did not ask for money.”

“ Don’t  _offer_  any, Umi!”

“ Do not lecture me as if I were a fool, child!”  Faroula raised her voice at him in the confined space of his car.

The twinge at his nape matured.  Actual pain lanced up the back of his skull.  The pressure behind his eyes ratcheted up several notches.

To make matters worse, the nearest Temple teemed with smug, complacent Westerners.  Hearing prayer in Westron did not feel right.  Nor did sitting in a pew.  Especially with a stranger so close on one side. 

Faroula hadn’t seemed to mind but her ‘Bandi accent sounded incongruous in his ear against all the Western inflections around him.  It made them different.

“ We rely on our own strength.  We face adversity and understand our strength.  We persevere despite all hands raised against us.  The Rising Lord stood alone.  He endured.  So shall we,” familiar cants had felt…wrong…on his tongue; lacked their familiar beauty and poetry.

By then, the pressure behind his eyes pounded against the whole front of his face.  His crown and temples throbbed.

The words printed in his hymnbook blurred into dancing black bugs.  He knew them by heart, no matter the language, and managed to recite along with the rest of the congregation.

 “ I stand in His shadow.  His strength is my strength.  It rises through me.  Time and tide will not sway me.  I am the mountain whose peak pierces wind and rain, sun and sky.  When all fades, I remain.”

Mairon had never felt so unsettled during a Service.  As they filed out, Faroula took one look into his face and said, “ We have leftovers, we eat them.”

To which he had to respond, “ I can’t eat,” because the vise squeezing his skull had kicked up rolling waves of nausea.  His eyes burned and the dim evening light felt like dagger jabs.

“ Keys,” she’d demanded.  Vision blurred, he’d given them to her with no appreciation for the irony.  He’d wanted her to drive his Audi but not like this.  Not when he was in no state to make comparisons against all the cars she’d driven today.

“ You lie down,”  Faroula commanded as she pulled up outside the carriage house.  “ Now.  Go.”

“ Yes, Umi.”  He fell out of the passenger seat onto the driveway.  Flashes and dots flared across his vision.  The stairs seem an impossible hurdle.  Hand over hand; he hauled himself up to the landing.  Faroula steadied him from behind.

Mairon cradled his forehead in one palm while she unlocked the door.  When she flipped on the outside light, he bit back an agonized grunt.

“ You lied to Umi.  You said these had stopped.”  Faroula scolded.  She steered him into the kitchen.  “Foolish boy.  Do you still get medicine from the doctor?”

He nodded.  The little motion caused excruciating pain.  If only his head would explode and kill him!

Neither of them noticed the empty sink, the unpacked and washed cookware stacked on the counter, or the assembled bookcases and media cabinet as they passed through the dark parlor.

But there was no way to miss the assembled bedstead in the master bedroom.  Someone had put both box spring and mattress in place.  Mairon’s blanket pallet lay folded on one newly assembled nightstand.

“ Very good.”  Faroula was pleased.

Mairon was not. 

But his head hurt too much to think beyond that.  He could only deal with the one thing: this pulsating agony.  He didn’t protest when Faroula stripped off his shirt and trousers.

Mairon collapsed on the mattress.  Curling in a ball, he wrapped both arms around his aching head.  A fresh wave of nausea assaulted him and he suffered several spasms: dry heaving.  There was nothing to come up.

The agony inside his skull exploded anew with each violent paroxysm.  His chest and throat felt ripped out after they passed.  Too much pain from too many places.  A faint sob wormed out of him.

It was then he lost it.  Nothing existed beyond barraging agony.

 

Faroula kicked off her shoes.  She climbed on the opposite side of the bed.  Slipping her palm under his head, she guided it to her lap.  Stroked his back and kissed his temple.

When he’d been little, she could rock him.  Now he was too big.  She settled for rubbing his nape until he moaned in protest.  Then she encompassed him in both arms while he panted and shook.

Once he passed out, she eased from beneath him.  One hand sought for her.  Faroula gave him the pillow to hold.  He pulled it over his face.

Faroula slipped from the dark room.  In the kitchen, she closed the door they’d left cracked open—a glance at the microwave's digital clock—about twenty minutes ago.  She slid the chef’s knife from the block and took a turn around the flat.  Checked every cubby and closet to assure that they had no unwanted visitors.

Returning to the kitchen, she made up a bowl of ice water and submerged a folded tea towel in it.  Faroula cradled the bowl in a second towel to ensure condensation or drips wouldn’t scar the top of the new nightstand. 

She ate several spoonfuls of yogurt directly from the tub and snagged a pair of cold dolmas from one of the leftover containers.

“ You should have known,” the old woman berated her reflection in one glass front cabinet, “you should have known when he lost his temper in the car.  We should have come straight back; never attended that ugly, Western Temple.”  Faroula pointed an accusing dolma at her own image. 

Popping the stuffed grape leaf into her mouth, she gathered the bowl and the dry towel.  She took them to the master bedroom.

And did not see the shadow that formed into a huge black cat—taller than a man’s knee—in the center of the kitchen floor. 

It licked leisurely at both paws and washed its face.  Luminescent green eyes studied the kitchen with supreme satisfaction.  The phantom cat strolled toward the door that led to the basement steps.  Dissolving in a fine black mist, it slipped under the narrow gap betwixt floor and door.

 

Rat and Vole sat on their master’s bed.  Curled against Mairon’s rounded back, Rat sang a silent Warding Song against pain into his ear.  Vole knelt on Mairon’s other side.  His hands generated a field of soothing cool over mussed red hair.

They’d been hiding in the closet when their master and the old woman arrived.  After she left, they rushed to comfort him.  Now they watched her pass the open door with a big blade in her hand.  The Vermin shared an impressed, appreciative glance.

Spell-Binding aside, at that moment they decided: they liked her.  Very much, indeed!  Whatever or whoever she was, she was fierce. 

Vole wondered if she could be another Maia who didn’t know her true self?  Like Lord Mairon did not know his true self.  Rat wrinkled her nose.  She shrugged.  They didn’t have enough information to speculate.

Between them, their lord uncurled.  He turned his face to Vole’s hands and their waves of soothing cold.

Rat nodded.  Vole grinned.  They heard the old woman’s step in the hall and, dis-corporating at speed, whipped back into the closet.

 

Faroula paused in the doorway to let her eyes adjust to the early evening moonlight streaming through bare windows.  She found her boy half rolled onto his back.  He’d pulled a corner of the pillow under his cheek.  She came to his side: he groaned and lifted clumsy fingers.  His head turned as if seeking something.

She pushed aside the folded blankets on the new nightstand and lay down the bowl of cold water cradled in its dry tea towel.  Squeezing out the wet one, she draped it over his forehead.

Mairon gave a low moan of relief.

Faroula nodded.  Then she hunted through the en suite bathroom for his prescription.  No pills, just little packets.  Grumbling in frustration, she settled for his brush and a washcloth.

After braiding his hair, Faroula sponged him down with the ice melt.  Recharged the towel on his forehead with fresh cold water.  When he stopped shaking, she went hunting again.

The medicine cabinet held over-the-counter pain relievers.  Useless, she knew from experience.  There were also two boxes full of little flat packets but Apothecary labels obscured their information.  Codes, refill numbers, and the name of the Chemist Shop covered what they were for and how to use them.

Nothing else that could be medicine.  Just silk hair treatment, face moisturizer, peroxide, and alcohol.  A bottle of skin foundation, eyeliner, and a tube of mascara…

Faroula closed the mirrored cabinet.  Mairon had always been cast as the wicked fairy or queen in school pantomimes.  Rôles he’d relished and performed with enthusiasm.

The old woman remembered her brother-in-law’s face seeing the boy dressed to the nines in a gold silk gown and Khadi’s borrowed jewelry. 

She suppressed a venomous grimace.  Too bad Mairon was so tall.  He’d always worn flat slippers.  She’d give all her own jewelry to see her brother-in-law’s face at her boy in a pair of high heels…

Faroula turned her search to the drawers under the sink.  Most were empty.  The stink of weed, however, led her to two bags tucked at the back of the bottom drawer. 

The contents of the first bag she recognized as the reeking weed.  The second bag looked like dried mushrooms.  She considered flushing _them_ down the toilet.  Deciding against it, she made a mental note to give Zaekir a piece of her mind when she got home.

There was a pack of rolling papers tucked amid the weed.  She took the bag.

 “ How hard can it be to roll weed?” she asked herself as she shut off the light.  If she left one on the counter by the kettle, he’d be sure to find it later.

She set it on the folded blanket pallet.  Then she re-wet the folded towel from his forehead and sponged down his throat and chest again.

 

An indeterminate amount of time later, Mairon became aware of a cold towel on his forehead.  Felt a cool, damp cloth daubing at his throat and chest.  Heard his mother humming, so very softly, “ We braided your hair.  We cooled you down.  When you can swallow, we give you a pill.  I can’t find your pills, my child, where are they?”

Mairon gasped, “ Patches,”

“ Hmm, my little falcon?”

“ Bathroom, blue box, patches.”  Nausea wouldn’t let pills stay down.

A short time later, he felt Faroula’s palm cup his cheek, “ Where should it go?”

“ Arm or thigh, then press the button.”  He groaned at her, “ Umi, press the button.”  The effort to form coherent words was too much.  Waves of agony crashed down with renewed strength.  Once more, they swept awareness from him.

 

 

When Faroula pressed the button on the transdermal patch, it amazed her to see a little red light flash to life.  A bright pinpoint in the dark room.

She looked at Mairon’s dark profile and wished she could ask him how long it took the medicine to work but he’d passed out again.

Faroula sponged him down one more time and recharged the cloth on his forehead with cold water.  She took the bowl of melted ice and the bag of weed to the kitchen.

After several tries and several crumpled papers, Faroula stepped out onto the kitchen landing to curse in ‘Bandi.  Leafy green flecks stuck to her fingers and she couldn’t shake them off.  She licked at them and cursed louder.

“ All right?”  A deep voice asked.

Her head jerked up.  She pulled her fingertips out of her mouth. 

Above, the bright landing light glowed behind a looming behemoth.  A man, appearing as an obscure black shadow, leaned over the handrail.  Not a visible feature, nothing, but a long cascade of even blacker hair.

For one moment, Faroula shivered with a biting chill.  It ripped down the length of her spine and then it was gone.  She attributed it to the early spring evening after the warmth of Mairon’s flat.

She waved her hand, “ The night, it is very bad.”

The man stood to his full height and descended the stairs.  When he came into the light of the second story landing, Faroula perceived how big he was.  And that his waist length hair really was blacker than black.

“ You must be Mairon’s mother.”

Faroula blinked at him.  He was… breathtaking.  Broad of shoulder and lean of hip, he appeared hewn of supple muscles and long bones.  Impossibly tall.

The perfected version of the two men she knew her boy had dated, however briefly, at University.

“ Faroula Tesazdi,” she introduced herself in a dazed voice.

“ I go by Bell,” he dipped his head to her, “because the rest wasn’t my choice, and I don’t much care for it.”

Faroula realized this was the landlord whom the witch-woman downstairs had spoken of with such high regard.  The man with the ‘ridiculous’ car in which the King of Gondor wouldn’t be seen dead.

She sucked at the weed stuck to her thumb.

Roni’s type.  And rich.

“ Is Mairon about?”  He glanced through the door window into the dim kitchen. “Do you need help?”

Faroula rubbed her thumb and forefinger together in another vain attempt to be rid of the sticky green bits.  Head tilting to one side, she asked, “ Do you know how to roll weed, Mr. Bell?”

He laughed: soft and surprised.  “ You have me at a disadvantage…”

She clicked her tongue, “ Rhonee tells me it is good medicine for migraine.”

His shadowed face curved into a smile, “Among other things.”  He reached over and opened the door for her, “ I’d be happy to roll a joint for you,”

“ Good.  We leave him one.  When he wakes, he smokes it and eats something.”  She stepped back inside. 

Bell followed.  He went to the island where she’d left the bag and a small pile of crumpled papers.  “ Here’s your problem, you can’t roll whole buds.”

The old woman moved to his side and studied the process like a hawk.

He broke up the lumps with his big fingers.  After a minute or two, he muttered, “This is sticky as hell.”  He pulled a fresh paper from the packet.

“ I think my nephew grows it.  May his father never know,” Faroula rubbed at the flakes still clinging to her own fingers.  Her face lit when Bell produced a perfect white cylinder.  “ Maybe you roll more?  One for you and another for Rhonee if one isn’t enough.”

“ From the smell of this, one’s more than enough.”  Bell chuckled.

Faroula shook her head, “ It is a very bad headache.  Make two.”

Bell looked around her.  He frowned.  “ He _has_ migraine?”

“ Very bad.”  Faroula nodded.  “ Now, it seems, they make patches for the arm or leg, but…” she shook her head, “ we will see.  When he wakes, he needs to eat.”

Bell rolled five more in rapid succession.  He put four of them back in the bag and handed Faroula two.

“ Ah, no, you keep this one,” She pressed the second joint on him.

As their hands touched, Melkor looped a thread of power over her fingers.  He perceived it as a thin, ultra-violet glimmer.  It coiled down around her wrist.

She saw nothing at all.  He watched her move around the island to set up a little tableau next to Mairon’s copper teakettle: a tin of loose-leaf tea, the brown ceramic teapot, a mug, a steeping egg, and the joint.

“ Thank you.”  Faroula moved to the door and opened it.

“ My pleasure.”  He said, and meant it.  He stepped back into the cool night air.  Tucking the joint in His breast pocket, He added, “ Let me know if you need anything else.  Just hit the first button on the intercom,” pointing through the kitchen to indicate a small wooden box on the wall between the cabinets and the basement door.

“ Ah!”  Faroula exclaimed, “ I had not noticed.  No need for stairs.  Very good.  Tomorrow I bring you nice rice pudding.  Now, I go check Rhonee.  Good night, Mr. Bell.”

Melkor blinked at that, but the door closed before He could respond.

“ What the fuck is rice pudding?”  Under His breath.  Taking the stairs three at a time up to His own kitchen door, “ Rice, I know—it’s horrible.  Even if it isn’t green.”  He entered the flat, “ Dimwit, what the fuck is rice pudding?”

“ I have no idea, Master,” Langon’s slurred voice responded from the parlor, “ let me look it up.”

Melkor, winding the ultra-violet filament between his fingers, stalked into the parlor.  “ You little bastards,” to the Swarm crowded on the carpet, “ keep it down.  He has one of his headaches.  I won’t have him disturbed.  No thumping.  No bumping.”  He twisted the thread and sent a fraction of His attention down it.

Mairon’s bedroom, lit by silver moonlight, to Melkor appeared bright as the sunniest afternoon.  His Lieutenant lay on an unmade bed.  Long hair twisted into a sloppy braid curled down his bare chest.  Mairon had one forearm thrown over his eyes in a pose the Dark Vala remembered from Ages past.

The old woman leaned over him.  She dabbed at his chest with a bit of cloth.  He groaned.

Melkor twitched the thread, just the faintest motion, and it uncoiled from Faroula’s wrist to land on Mairon’s flesh.  It slithered over his sternum to right above where his heart should lay.  With a flare of invisible power, it sank into golden skin and disappeared.

The Vala of Chaos breathed deep, triumphant, as the pulsing filament re-established the rightful bond that should exist between Vala and Maia.

Click-click.  One of the Swarm stood before him.  It offered up a little plastic cup sealed with a shiny foil lid.

“ This is pudding, then?”  Melkor took the cup and, tearing off the top, sniffed its content.  It looked like pale yellow plastic.  He broke the smooth surface with one fingertip and scooped up a glob.  When He tasted the glop, He found it cool and mild.  The Umaia at His feet licked the underside of the discarded foil lid.  It purred and smacked thin green lips.

The Vala scooped up another finger full before He dropped the cup down for the Little One to catch.  It promptly drove its thin, tubular tongue into the remaining goo and started slurping.

“ Rice pudding is rice cooked with milk and various spices,” Langon sat cross-legged on the carpet.  He read the face of his phone.  “ It looks disgusting.”

The Master considered what He’d do if the Haradi woman made good on her promise.  Feed it to the Little Ones, perhaps…or maybe not.  He touched the joint in His shirt pocket.  Its pungent green scent held promise to make even something as bland as pudding taste good.

“ A Votive is a Votive,” He noted philosophically as He strolled past the Herald and dropped onto the comfortable couch.

Langon, completely unused to this good humour, stared at his Vala in tipsy consternation.

 

When Mairon came to, he found himself clutching a pillow on an unmade bed.  All-encompassing agony had dimmed to mere pain.  His head felt tender, but nothing worse.  His stomach no longer writhed or rolled with queasy surges.  A clumsy hand found the patch on his upper arm.  He pressed its activation button again out of sheer instinct.

Unnecessary because it was obviously active: otherwise, he wouldn’t be conscious.

“ Umi?”  He struggled to sit up but fell back with his vision swimming.  He clawed up his strength.  After several deep breaths, he tried again.

He did not feel or see the small black shades that oozed off his bed.  Blending into the shadows, they slithered under the gap of his closet door.

A damp tea towel, folded into a neat packet, fell into his lap.

“ Umi?”  He sat for a while, pressing the cold cloth to his face and throat.  It never warmed, but that didn’t impact on him as he tucked it against his nape under his braided hair.

Mairon, again, tried to rise.  This time his legs were steady enough to support him.  His mouth felt as if he’d chewed on sandpaper—parched dry.  He staggered into his bathroom.  Turning on the tap, he leaned down and took a mouthful of the flowing water.  After a good swish, he spat it out.

He needed to rehydrate.  And eat.  Using a hand against the wall to keep balance, he made his unsteady way into the hall.  First, he peeked through the partially open door into his guest bedroom.  A shaft of crystalline moonlight revealed Faroula, still dressed, asleep atop her blanket.  He gentled the door shut.

With lurching steps, he managed his way into the kitchen.  She’d left the dim light over the sink on for him.  He found her little tea tableau—including the rolled joint.

“ Well.  Umi.  Who knew?”  He lifted the white cylinder.  It was nice and tight, but not too tight.  She’d done an almost professional job.  “ Damn, Umi.”  He breathed out a suppressed laugh despite how shitty he felt.  He tucked it behind one ear.

Mairon gulped down a whole mug of tepid tap water.  Sipping at a second, he loaded the steeping egg with loose-leaf green tea and dropped it in the brown ceramic pot.  He emptied the old water from the kettle and put in fresh.

Before he put the kettle down on the gas burner, which he set very low, he gathered his hair back and leaned down to light the joint off the small blue flames.

Mairon flicked the hood fan to life before he let himself out the kitchen door.

Standing barefoot on the landing, in only his boxer shorts, he sighed with relief as the cool night air hit his skin.  He took a long draw off the joint.

“ Hm, better.”  He sank onto the top step, unaware that two little faces appeared in a kitchen window. 

They watched him take a second hit and suppress a sudden cough. 

Mairon looked on the dark carriage house windows and thought of the assembled furniture in his bedrooms.  He tsk’d.

“ We’re going to have to talk, Kosomot,” he said as if speaking to the occupant, “personal boundaries.”  He tsk’d again.

Details came into focus while he sucked down two more hits.  Dim light reflected from Bell’s flat above him.  It lit rectangles on the dark grass. 

The Card Lady’s flat below was completely dark and silent—even her landing light turned off. 

One of the carriage house doors wasn’t fully closed.  A black bar betrayed the small gap. 

Harry Lang’s little convertible was parked in its usual spot up at the end of the driveway.

In the small morning hours.  Of course. 

Mairon took one last, long drag of pungent smoke.  Zaekir, he thought, had perfected his agricultural art.

As he stubbed out his half joint on the edge of the landing, a silent figure appeared at the end of the long drive.  It swung some sort of bag jauntily at its side as it turned to walk toward the house…and him.

Mairon studied it and decided that, despite the faint crunch of heavy boots and some type of dark, mid-length jacket, a woman approached.  The walk gave her away: movement from the hips rather than the knees.

Then the door above him opened and closed.  Light footfalls sounded on the landing above.  Someone came down the stairs.

Mairon looked around.  Harry Lang came to an abrupt halt.  They stared at each other through the darkness.

“ Where are you going, Brother?” Terese Withywindle’s quiet voice called.  Her pale face, dominated by black hollows where her eyes should be, honed in on Mairon’s sitting figure.  She, too, stopped dead.  “ Dr. Smith.  Good morning,” she greeted in a false, normal tone.

 _Does no one in this damn house sleep?_   Marion wondered.  It had to be two o’clock in the bloody morning.  _“Brother”_?  Well, that was interesting.

The door above opened again.  Someone else stepped onto the landing.

Both Lang and Withywindle’s faces twitched upward toward the noise.  Though Mairon couldn’t say exactly why, he suddenly got the impression of skyrocketing anxiety around him.

“ Ai, Dimwit, are you gone?”  An all too familiar, velvet voice rumbled in the darkness.  “ You forgot your phone.  Idiot.”

Bell didn’t sound lover-like.  Mairon scowled.  Admittedly, he lacked a true perspective of the relationship, but _he’d_ never put up with that insulting tone—not without extensive negotiation.  And never outside the bedroom. 

“ N-no, Sir,” Lang did an about-face and jogged back up the stairs.  “ Thank you, Sir,” Lang’s little stammer confirmed Mairon’s sense of anxious tension.

The Card Lady slipped up the short flight of steps to her door.  It seemed she possessed exceptional night vision because a moment later he heard the soft snick of a bolt drawn back.  Opening her kitchen door just enough to slip through, she disappeared.

Maybe she was late with her rent.

“ What’s got you spooked?”  Bell demanded of Lang.  The estate agent didn’t respond aloud but a moment later Bell leaned over the railing.  A massive black shadow blotted the landing light above.  Mairon could make out no detail but the swing of incredibly long, dark hair hanging above him.

“ Good morning, Mr. Bell.”  Mairon closed his palm around his half joint.  With his other hand, he grabbed the railing beside him and levered onto his feet.

“ Good morning, Dr. Smith.”

Harry Lang, utterly silent, descended again.  He moved passed Mairon without sparing him a glance.

“ How’s your head?” The surprising question floated down.

Lang hit the ground moving fast and loped toward the silhouette of his sports car.

Despite the darkness, Mairon’s thoughtful frown instinctively gave way to his expressionless public face.  “Excuse me?”

Bell, in a sudden agile move, went under the railing.  He landed with amazing lightness just above where Mairon stood two steps down.

The two little faces in Mairon’s kitchen window jerked back and disappeared.

 

Rat and Vole fell off a small stretch of counter onto the linoleum floor.  For several moments, they crouched and clung one to one another.  Vole buried his face in Rat’s throat.  His arms squeezed around her tight enough to hurt.  She rubbed his back with both hands.

For good or ill, they had attached themselves to one dark star.  As it ascended, they rose.  When it plummeted, they fell.  They’d weathered this uncertainty for long Ages. 

Rat pushed Vole back.  She ran her black tongue up the side of his face in a comforting lick.  Leaned her forehead against his for a moment, and thought to him that, come what may, they were committed to Lord Mairon’s Cause.  To his supremacy over Melkor’s Umaiar be they Balrog, werewolf, or any other damned monster great or small.

She enclosed his shoulders in her hands and gave him a bracing shake.  A whining breath shuddered through him.

On the island cooktop, their master’s kettle began the faintest wavering trill.  A whisper of steam puffed from the whistler covering its spout.

Soon it would shriek and wake the old woman.

So long as they existed, Rat thought to her companion, nothing would ever burn down Lord Mairon’s house.  They would not permit it.

Rat pulled Vole around the kitchen until they faced the burner controls.  She climbed him like a ladder, kneeling on both his shoulders, so she could switch off the little blue flames.

She patted his head.  Vole tipped his crown into her belly and looked up at her hideous and clever little face.  She gave him a view of her vast number of needle-like teeth.  Not exactly a smile but not a grimace, either.

Rat cheeped: she would ensure their master prevailed.

 

Mr. No-First-Name Bell tipped his head to one side. “Your mother said you had migraine.”

Mairon drew a sharp, indignant breath.  Cold eyes assessed the situation.  Blocked from his own door, he considered the best way to get around Bell.  Bare feet silent on wood, Mairon stalked up two steps onto his own landing.  He found himself staring at his landlord’s collar bones.

Bell did not move.

“ My kettle must be ready to boil,” Mairon bit out, “excuse me.”

“ Feeling better, then?”  Bell’s low rumble made the fine hair on Mairon’s body stand on end.  A sudden rush of awareness, all the more intense as Zaekir’s excellent weed kicked in, prickled anger-roused nerves.  His head began to throb again.

Cotton-mouth chose that moment to strike. Hard. Mairon’s tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and oral flesh glued itself to his teeth.  _Oh, DAMN, not now!_

“ Mudge bedder, yesh.”  _Oh, fuck!  Just…fuck._   Would he never engage with this huge man at his best?

“ I won’t keep you.”  Bell still did not move.  Instead, he reached out and touched Mairon’s bare shoulder.  Just lightly.

A zing of sexual awareness fought with the thump in Mairon’s head and the discomfort of a mouth dryer than a fucking desert: sensory overload.

Mairon snapped his shoulder away from Bell’s faint touch.  A massive overreaction and, in that moment, he truly hated himself. 

“ My keddle,” Mairon forced out more mangled words.  Defensive impulse wanted to make a sarcastic comment about burning down Bell’s mansion but neither his brain nor his mouth would comply.

Bell’s hand hovered for a moment then turned outward in a small, placating gesture.  The huge, black-haired man swung around to open Mairon’s kitchen door.  He stepped back.

“ Eat something.  Get some sleep.”  Bell’s voice, full of quiet concern, didn’t impact until Mairon had slid by him and stepped over the threshold.

The redhead paused.  Maybe it sprung from the weed, or Bell’s soft, velvet timbre, or some lingering weakness from his migraine.  A false sense of intimacy created by sharing this puddle of light in the early morning darkness, but for one second, Mairon wanted…something.  He experienced a vague desire, uninformed of itself, to lay down his strength and rely on one greater than his own. 

Succor, or acceptance, for his actual self… the odd-man out.

Like _that_ had a chance of happening in Udûn’s lowest, most terrible hell.

Face to the floor, he murmured, “ Thang you,” through the wad of cotton in his mouth.  “ Gud nide.”

“ Good night.”  Bell, with both hands, brushed his waist-length mane back over his shoulders.

Mairon watched the motion out of the corners of his down-turned eyes.  _Rising Lord, why must he be so bloody fine?_

Mairon snicked the door shut.  Through the window, still looking sidelong, he watched Bell turn and go away.

“ Fug,” under his breath.

Tea, he desperately needed tea.

Mairon found his much-mentioned kettle had somehow turned itself off and not just the flame petering out but completely off.  The knob turned and all.

He didn’t bother to warm the brown ceramic pot.  The water gave off steam, and that was good enough.  He poured it over his waiting tea egg and got another mug of tepid tap water.

While he waited for the tea to steep, he dug some leftovers out of the fridge.  Popping open the Styrofoam, he found the remains of his meal from last night.  He wolfed down the last couple of dolmas and three hunks of lamb kebab with his fingers.

“ Mmmmm,” over his first cup of hot tea, “ okay, okay, slow down, Smith, slow down.”  This time, he wrapped the kebab meat in a limp piece of lettuce and actually chewed.  Wished there was some fresh pita, or naan, for a proper sandwich but they’d eaten the last of the flatbread.

After finishing the contents of the Styrofoam container, he pulled out the tub of yogurt and demolished it, too.  Then he stood in front of the open refrigerator and stared at the remaining “doggie bag”.

“ Noooo,” Mairon argued with himself, “ No, no,”

 

In the flat above, Melkor plucked His translucent, ultra-violet thread, “ Go on, love, eat the chicken.  Pity I can’t send you down a piece of this cake,”

The Swarm, watching their Lord stretched out on the couch with a store-bought, frozen hazelnut torte, had no idea to whom the Master spoke.  But the word ‘love’ cemented in their attention as did the offer to share… well, anything.

 

“ I want cake.”  Mairon muttered to the fridge, “Chocolate cake, warm, with butter.  I need cocoa powder.  A pan.”  And everything else needed to make a sheet cake from scratch. 

Which was very strange—he didn’t like cake. 

He’d rather have dates, or figs, stuffed with half a walnut.  Or broken walnuts and raisins mixed in a bowl.  Or baklava, with ground walnuts and fine leaf filo dough, soaked in honey-lemon syrup.  Or Katayef, those fantastic little dumplings filled with cheese or a mixture of ground nuts, sugar, and cinnamon.  Or deep fried almond pastries soaked in honey and orange rose water syrup – Samsa.

“ O, _damn_ you, Zaekir, it’s munchie weed.”

He hauled out the Styrofoam container that held Faroula’s rice pilaf and Shawarma style, grilled chicken wings.

 

Upstairs, Melkor laughed.  His thumb and forefinger caressed the fine magical filament that coiled around His hand and disappeared into the skin at His wrist.  With His other hand, he speared another hunk of torte and popped it into His mouth.

 

 

Umi hadn’t eaten half her meal and now Mairon ripped into the cold chicken.

He’d only have two wings, he reasoned, of the half dozen remaining.

Faroula found him with a wingette clenched between his teeth as he tried to manipulate the ceramic teapot with greasy fingers. 

“ Pffft,” his mother laughed at him from the doorway.  She’d changed into her nightclothes and bathrobe since he’d peeked in on her.  “ Put it down,” she scolded.  The old woman came and poured him a fresh cup before she took a mug from the cabinet.  “ Eh, it’s cold,” when she took her own.

It wasn’t actually cold; closer to lukewarm.  He pointed at the microwave.

Faroula picked up one of the wings and exclaimed, “Also cold.”

Mairon tucked his bite of chicken in one cheek and said, “ I like cold chicken.”

She enjoyed nostalgic memories of how his teens, with their dramatic growth spurts, had sent him shooting up to his current height.  And the amazing amount of food he’d consumed when it was happening.  Like the desert hawks of her youth, he’d dived on anything edible and left only fur and bones, as the old saying went.

When Faroula finished nuking her tea, she tucked the Styrofoam container into the microwave to heat the last four wings and the rice pilaf with golden raisins and slivered almonds.  While the food rotated, on low power, she found the half joint on the counter.

“ This stinks.” She announced, pointing at it.

“ It smells, but it doesn’t stink.”  Mairon contradicted with a wry smile.

“ You feel better.”

“ Between this medicine,” he touched the patch on his upper arm, “that medicine,” gesturing at the joint, “and some food, I feel much better.”  He opened the drawer in which he’d put the flatware and pulled out two spoons.  “ For the rice.”  He set them on the counter and popped open the microwave door two seconds before the timer ran out.

“ We used to grind weed and make butter tea.  Don’t tell your father.”  Faroula retrieved the food and set it on the island between them.  “ Or your sister.”

“ Umi, I’m shocked,” Mairon teased, “for shame.”

“ Foolish boy, no one is born old.”  She gave him a narrow glance, “Tomorrow I show you.  And I make nice rice pudding.”

“ I love your rice pudding.  Almost as much as your falafel.  I think we’ll have Kosomot over for dinner,” he said, “ if you don’t mind.  I’ll throw something into the Crockpot and make some bread.”  He scooped up a big spoonful of rice.  After a moment, “The almonds went soft,” in disappointment.

She took a taste and gave a philosophical shrug, “ The raisins are still good.  Sweet.”

“ Hmm,” he agreed around another mouthful.  Then he hunted up a couple of napkins.  When he dropped them on the counter, “ You want a hit of weed?  I promise not to tell Aba or Khadi.  It’ll make the chicken taste even better.”

“ Wretched boy, don’t tempt Umi.”

“ It’ll help you get back to sleep.”  He scrubbed his fingers with a napkin and picked up the large roach.  “ It’s nearly three-fifteen, I suppose it’s safe to go out and have a hit now.  It was like the Minrith Central Rail Station half an hour ago.  No one in this damn house seems to sleep.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greeting, gentle readers, and Happy New Year to you, one and all!
> 
> Here are not two, but four chapters that span a single weekend. You'll find a lot going on in these new offerings and I hope there's enough character development, plot complications, and action to keep you amused and entertained!
> 
> From December 3rd until January 7th, there was a constant rotation of family visiting. Literally, every sibling I have came to visit, not to mention two younger generations, so I wasn't able to write more than a paragraph. Since the insanity ended, I've put the hammer to the anvil, so to speak. Consequently, these chapters are not as polished as I would like. If you spot typos or cut & paste errors, or continuity issues, please forgive me and I would be grateful to have them brought to my attention.
> 
> As always, it's my earnest desire to offer the best story and the tightest writing I'm capable of producing.
> 
> Con-crit is more than welcome—it's actively sought. Please don't hesitate!
> 
> All comments will, when time allows, receive a response, I promise you. I could not do this without you, my friends. I'm only half the equation. You are not only the other half, you're the important one.
> 
> As always, thank you for your time! I am grateful that you choose to gift it to me and my writing! <3<3<3 from a <3~~


	20. Sunday, Sunday, Can't Trust That Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaxon Noises - Violence Warning.
> 
> Melkor and Mairon both start the day in foul spirits.
> 
> The Vermin are Out of Favor.
> 
> Blood in the basement. (Klaxon Noises for this Segment.)
> 
> Kosomot throws Melkor under the bus.
> 
> Mairon discovers that a problem he thought he'd put behind him just won't go away.
> 
> Faroula's interfering for all the right reasons.

January 8th, 2019

 

_**Sunday, Sunday, Can't Trust That Day** _

 

Very Early Sunday Morning:

 

“ Where the fuck is it?”  Melkor, tie unknotted around his neck and a shoe tucked in his armpit, scattered documents already spread in disarray over the dining room table.  A haphazard stack slithered to the floor and fluttered everywhere.

The Swarm, huddled behind the Master’s furniture and musical instruments, attempted to make themselves smaller or less opaque.

“ Dimwit said he put it right here,” Melkor snarled and knocked another stack off the table.  “ Vermin!  Vermin!  Attend Me!  Now!”

The Vala’s anger slashed through the room.  Manifesting as pulsing pressure, it squeezed and oppressed both flesh and psyche alike.  Flowed down paneled walls and pooled on the carpet like heavy gravity.  Window drapes flattened.  Carpet fibers crushed into a dense mat and decorative tassels smooshed flat.

The Swarm writhed and moaned under inflexible compression.

A shadow ripped out of an air duct, streaming through the grate in a dozen smoky wisps, and a moment later Rat lay face down on the floor at the Master’s feet.  Melkor’s unshod toe jabbed her hip.

“ Get off your fucking face and find the purchase contracts for the Claireborne Hotel.  And you made the worst coffee in the universe this morning, what the fuck was that about?  It tasted like shit.”

Rat, who’d been hiding in Mairon’s study closet, had not made coffee.  She turned her head and gave a nearby Swarm cluster one suspicious eye—a dark glinting orb which promised a thorough lecture and swats from the dust-broom.  The little cluster of Umaiar cringed harder.

Rat gave an obsequious trill.  She pulled herself to her knees and began sorting through the papers.

Vole’s incorporeal spirit, a long, thin wall of mist, squeezed through the floorboards.  He took form with a hollow pop.

Melkor, who’d stalked away, whipped around and slung his black leather dress shoe at Vole.

“ Where the fuck have you been?”  He raged.  Unrestrained black temper flung Umaiar, corporeal and insubstantial alike, against the walls.

Vole squealed and, covering his head with both arms, slammed chest down on the wooden floor.

“ Little master, little master, little master,” Vole’s soft rasp repeated in outright panic, “ thump-head,”

Melkor pulled up.  His Will, and the overwhelming pressure it invoked, stopped crushing everything in the room.  “Yes, yes, he did.  Is he better now?”

Rat cheeped.

Vole hissed, “ Sleeeeping,”

“ Then you all shut the fuck up and let him sleep,” Melkor pointed around at His Umaiar, who had barely made a peep all night and certainly weren’t making a sound now.

Frantic nods.  One or two shifted molecules so their mouths disappeared.  Others disbursed their flesh and hovered off the floor, well away from the walls.

Vole started sorting papers.

The Master disappeared down the hall then returned for His shoe.  Scooping it from the floor, He flicked suspicious, crimson eyes over Rat.  Melker, lips pursed in thought, strode for the master bedroom to finish dressing.

Rat gave an ultrasonic peep.  The Swarm crept forward.  They cast anxious, jittery fragments of their attention down the hallway.

Rat hissed.  They focused on her.

Waving an escrow document at them, she spread her sight through their eyes.  Might as well make use of them, Rat thought, and speed up the process.

So many papers here.

“ Sssnick?” A sibling held up a manila folder.  “ Snick, snick?”

One might call it “she”, this little creature with soft grey fur, luminescent silver eyes, and delicate pewter-coloured claws, in deference to a form of proto-gender that many of their siblings disdained.

Vole took the folder, opened it, and read the first few lines.  They mentioned the word “hotel” but not “Claireborne”. 

“ No,” Vole closed the folder and set it aside.  “Look more.”

“ Snick!”

Rat made a distracted swipe at another sibling who walked on the strewn documents.  With her attention spread so thin, among so many sets of eyes—or sensor patches—it was hard to focus and get in a solid slap.

“ No!” Vole scolded over his shoulder as he pushed through the sea of paper, “Dirty paws, Weasel, dirty!”

This sibling, a pointy-faced creature with black and white blotches on his flesh, growled and used those dirty hind paws to push a bunch of papers and folders together.

“ Weaza,” Snick crooned, “ Snick-snick-snick!”  She gathered them into a neat pile and, with Rat’s knowledge at her command, began to skim the words before her.

Most of the documents had been sorted into messy piles, on both floor and table, by the time Melkor returned.

Vole stood at rigid attention.  He held a manila folder, high above his head, clutched in both hands.  A nervous gulp worked his throat when the Master approached.

The Dark Vala looked sharp in a black, silk-cashmere blend suit - buttoned waistcoat, elegant satin tie, and silver cuff links.

Melkor ripped the folder from Vole’s grasp.  

“ Clean this mess up,” Up came a hand and His car keys flung themselves into His palm.  “ When Dimwit gets back, tell him to organize all this shit.”

Rat stopped sorting and bowed double so her forehead touched the floor.  She cheeped.  Vole dropped to his knees and fell on his face.  The Swarm whimpered and tried to jam themselves under the dining room table or hide behind the window drapes.

“ I’ll be eating lunch at the hotel but when I get back, I’ll want sup,” Melkor growled as He started for the kitchen door.  Arien’s light was just peaking through the window as dawn broke.  The Vala stopped.  He tried to contain a sharp wince.  “ Fuck,” under His breath.

Melkor turned and, striding back through the parlor, went out the pocket doors into the front hall.

Rat kept sorting.  Vole melted into a puddle of quivering nerves.  The rest of the Swarm moaned and hurried to their daytime resting places.

“ Snick?” Except for one.

Vole pulled himself onto his knees and looked to at her, “ Coffee?”

Her head bobbed.  She’d done it, however badly, “Snick-snick!”

Rat looked over her shoulder with a ferocious frown.  She growled under her breath, “Ch-ch-ch!”

“ …snick…” Snick became very tiny.

Vole nodded toward the kitchen.  He climbed to his feet.  Shooting Rat a fond, indulgent look, he chittered softly and waved a hand to indicate that Snick shouldn’t mind Rat.  She, like their master, became very cross when things weren’t done properly, or perfectly.

Warbling, Vole offered to explain how to make the black beverage.

“ Snick!”

When Rat outright glared at him, Vole crooned.  Before leading Snick into the kitchen, he went to pat Rat’s bent back and stroke her slick black hair.

After a moment, Rat stopped glaring and merely grumbled.

Vole beamed at both.  Among the Swarm, there weren’t many Umaiar of their Rank.  Most were much simpler creatures, lesser evils, not capable of understanding more than their Purpose and their Master’s moods.

If, Vole thought at Rat, Snick could learn coffee perhaps she could learn other things.  Like chicken nuggets.  Maybe even to read.

Then Rat wouldn’t have to divide herself between the Master’s quarters and their master’s quarters.

Rat sucked air through her fangs with a pop.  After running a skeptical eye over the other Umaia’s soft grey fur and delicate, pewter-coloured claws, Rat jerked her head at the kitchen door.

Vole gave a silent laugh and, grabbing Snick’s clawed hand in his own, pulled her toward the other room.

Snick, her silver eyes huge, chirped with excitement, “Coffa!”

“ Cof-FEE,”  Vole corrected as they disappeared.

Rat, now that Vole was out of sight, collapsed on the wooden floor beside Melkor’s dining room table.  Covering her face with both hands, she shuddered.  Before him, she must appear strong.  Decisive, clever, and in control—like Lord Mairon insisted on showing no weakness before Melkor.

But everything was a mess.  And Rat, improvising as hard and as fast as she could, was exhausted. 

 

 

Mairon slept through his alarm and woke late.

Fumbling with his phone, he was disgusted to find it after eight o’clock.  So much to do: an uncomfortable conversation needed and, to show no hard feelings, an invitation to extend; a meal to make; a printer to unpack and set up; laundry to wash; and furniture to arrange.

But first, tea.  And something for breakfast.

He found Faroula in the kitchen just popping her rice pudding into a slow oven.

“ Teapot’s hot,” she told him.

“ Thank you,” he got himself a mug of amber tea and leaned his shoulder against the arched kitchen entry.  “We need to get you someplace to sit.  I didn’t want to go out today, but we need a chair.”

“ Mr. Bell brought two,” Faroula nodded toward the parlor behind his back.

Mairon turned around and realized yes, two chairs faced one another over a small tea table in the alcove created by the mansion’s octagon turret.  Bell had brought all three, it seemed.

Mairon’s lingering sense of disgust became a surge of anger.

“ He’s got balls,” he snarled, “and what a set!” as he slapped his mug on the nearest patch of countertop.

“ Now, Rhonee,” Faroula sighed.  He stalked away, and she trailed behind.

First, Mairon stood in the doorway to the spare bedroom: face rigid, lips compressed, arms folded tight.

Someone had assembled not only the bed, but the nightstand, and bureau, too.  And gone so far as to put an old-fashioned lamp, with a leaded glass shade, on that nightstand.

A wordless growl rose off him.

Faroula, watching from the end of the hall, tsk’ed and shook her head.

Next, he moved to the master bedroom and outright glared.  His bedstead stood between two windows exactly where he would have placed it had he been given the opportunity.  Even the damn bureau, tucked against an interior wall, stood where he would have put it.

“ Fuck,” Mairon muttered, “  _fuck_!”

Faroula tsk’ed again.

“ It’s _my_ furniture,” Mairon snarled over his shoulder.

“ So only you can assemble it?  Arrange it?”

“  _Yes_ ,”

He stalked past Faroula back into the parlor and growled at the pair of bookcases, the media center that awaited his sound system, and the loaned table and chairs.

“ By Udûn’s lowest hell, when did he bring those?”

“ He has nice antiques, no?”  Faroula earned herself a ferocious scowl.

The chairs matched the house: dark, carved wood with high backs, embroidered upholstery, ball and claw feet.  They looked…perfectly at home.  The table, too.

“ Damn it,” Mairon breathed out,“ Umi, when did he bring-”

“ Early.  Before six.  You were very asleep.  I did not like to wake you.  He brought them from the attics.  Said you could borrow them until you had your own.  He offered a dining set, too.”

“ Like hell!”

“ Don’t be ungrateful,” Faroula scolded.  “ Finish your tea.  I make some toast.”

“ Don’t tell me he ‘loaned’ us a bloody toaster!”

“ No.  I make it over the burner with a serving fork.  I only burned mine a little.  Now I have the trick of it.  I make you a piece.”

Faroula did _not_ tell him that the dining table and its six chairs waited outside Mairon’s front pocket doors.  Or that Mr. Bell had offered to outfit the entire flat, as he did for Ms. Withywindle, when he found Faroula at the top of the main staircase—watching sunrise flicker through the chandelier—this morning.

Wherever the huge man had been going early on a Sunday, he’d stopped to inquire after Mairon’s health and delayed his departure long enough to lug furniture down from the attics above.  Told her about unconverted rooms and given her permission to explore through any unlocked door.

Faroula mentioned none of it.  She knew her foster son and his hair-trigger temper after one of his headaches.

“ Come, eat toast.”  Her slippers made a flat patter against the hardwood floors as she went back into the kitchen.

Mairon, jaw clenched and chin stubborn, followed.  “You need to stir that pudding.”

“ You stir.  I make toast.”

 

Weasel had slipped into the basement after Melkor departed.  Another Umaia of rank high enough to evince a proto-gender, he, formless and shapeless, watched the Vermin enter their nest.

Now, three hours later, he waited for them to emerge. 

Vole had stopped snoring.  The warren of dark and dirty rooms was still and silent.

The Vermin would soon come out.  The Other moved in his quarters and Weasel had noted that they tracked the redhead’s every move.

The Vermin watched the Other like all dutiful Umaiar watched the Master.

Weasel remained focused on the bulbous end of a thighbone protruding from a nest of woven bones, rags, giant eagle feathers, and other household detritus. 

Completely unaware of another watcher tucked on an exposed rafter overhead.

 

The phantom cat did not twitch.  It did not breathe.  Luminescent green eyes at half-mast, it ignored dust particles falling through its vague collection of molecules.  It, too, stared at the small, dark opening in the tightly woven nest.

Tevildo, Prince of Cats, had an ancient score to settle.  Time after time, the Master’s Favorite had denied him his rightful prey. 

All vermin, natural or unnatural, were his.  His to hunt, stalk, taunt, kill, and consume.  And these two Vermin, long had he waited to have their throats clenched in his fangs.  Their soft bellies ripped open by his powerful hind claws.

The Lieutenant, that austere bastard, had forbidden, blocked, and importuned the Master on the Vermin’s behalf through long Ages.  Now, Mairon could no longer protect them.

They were prey.

 

Weasel’s atoms vibrated with excitement when a little, black puffball wriggled out of the small hole.  It tumbled to the cement floor and lay on its back with four tiny paws flailing at the dusty air.

A moment later, a larger shape appeared.  Snout-first, silvery whiskers and grey fur protruded.  Rat scuttled down the nest.

 

Tevildo formed claws first, then fangs.  The demon-cat grinned as the rest of his body coalesced.  Bottom wriggling, he positioned his weight for a perfect pounce.

 

Rat got her snout under Vole’s round bottom and flipped him onto his feet.  Sniffing him from nose to tail, she assured herself he was unharmed before she shifted shape.  First one then two plumes of grey smoke rose in columns.  Rat assumed her humanoid fana on her feet and looked down where Vole sat in the dust.

She shook her head at him and gave his ear a light cuff.  Ignoring it, he yawned and stretched.  Ruffled his already messy hair before he, too, climbed to his feet.  With a sleepy grin, he reached over and scratched her belly.

Rat rolled her eyes at him.

 

An angry cat blinked in fury.  One, in this form, he could easily take but two…the second would be on him before he could complete his kill.

Tevildo hadn’t expected them to morph so quickly.

 

Weasel continued to watch, patience itself, as the Vermin brushed each other off.  Rat tried to smooth Vole’s hair into some semblance of order but black curls bounced back into immediate disarray.

Clicking and cheeping to one another, quite amiably, they pattered away.

Weasel waited until their footfalls sounded on the wooden stairs that led up into the mansion proper.  When he heard the distant click of a door closing, his shadowy shape sprang from hiding.  Forming a long, thin, twisty body, covered in black and white fur, Weasel dove for the gap in the nest wall.

It took some wiggling and sinuous squirming to get in, but after a few moments, Weasel fell onto the soft, interior bed of eagle feathers—triumphant.

Now, Weasel twisted onto his feet, time to find Snick her shiny.  How she’d wanted it, when Vole had shown it to them all, that length of bright silver metal.  Platinum, Vole called it.  A fragment of their master’s Chain of Office from long ago.

Weasel, to whom the Lieutenant was only a legend, knew the Vermin had many such tokens of Favor.  They wouldn’t miss one.

He shifted into his humanoid form.  Pressing his palms to the matted feathers, he felt for hard lumps beneath the soft surface.

His nest, in the vast attics above, was all prepared.  Woven from broken slats, old, musty clothes, and pieces of a leather trunk, it was ready to hold two.  The shiny chain would be his pièce de résistance. 

Snick wished for it so, longed for it with all her tiny heart, and, when he offered it to her, she would love him just as Vole loved Rat.  Companions and allies for always.

Weasel dug his fingers into the woven feathers.  He pulled forth a bent gold broach.  Shaking his head, he thrust it back down.  The next lump was a misshapen pearl, gone dull.  The third was a tarnished silver inkwell cap.

Undeterred, the little Umaia hunted on.  All the while unaware of the fuming, furious demon cat whom, having seen him squeeze into the nest, decided to jump down from its ceiling perch.

 

Tevildo, too, possessed infinite patience.  His motivation, however, stemmed not from want of love but the burning desire for revenge and a hunger for fresh meat.

When Weasel emerged from the Vermin’s nest, he held one thick link of platinum chain in his mouth.  After much wiggling and twisting, he tumbled face first onto the cement floor.  Springing up, in exultation, he clutched the heavy metal in both tiny paws.  Triumph flared for a moment in beady black eyes.  But only a moment.

Emerald green eyes met his own.  A low hiss filled the basement.  The Old Enemy’s whiskers pulled back to reveal a set of sharp white teeth.

Weasel froze.  It was his last mistake.

Tevildo pounced.

Huge black paws, sporting twenty long claws, came from both sides.  Powerful hind legs drove against the cement.  Tevildo lunged.  Snapping jaws caught the back of Weasel’s neck.  Razor-sharp claws sank through thick fur and drove into soft flesh.

Weasel dropped the chain to the dusty floor.  He tried to back out of the cat’s deadly embrace.  The smell of hot blood bloomed in the musty air.  Ripped and torn at shoulders and neck, Weasel squealed in terror and anger.

Tevildo wrenched his head, flipping Weasel onto his back, and lunged in again to clamp down on a vulnerable throat.  Pinning his prey beneath him, the Prince of Cats growled and tightened his lethal embrace.

Churning and twisting, kicking up plumes of dust, Weasel fought to be free.  But his frantic struggle only deprived him of a limited air supply.  Vision began to grey out, and his wriggling grew weaker.  And weaker.

Finally, only his long tail twitched in the grime.

Tevildo’s growl became a satisfied purr.  He pulled back.  And that was his mistake.

Weasel, barely aware, felt his flesh dying.  In an instinctive jerk, he abandoned it.  It took the very last of his weak energy to wrench free.  And his fëa rose, much diminished, above the carnage.

Lacking many of his molecules, he found himself a mere shade floating in the dust-laden air.  Indiscernible particles of energy mixed with the flecks of dirt kicked up during the struggle.

Weasel watched Tevildo rip out what had once been his throat.  Felt an echoing, phantom pain as strong hind claws disemboweled his long, white belly.  Mourned as pulsing intestines spilled forth and blood pooled over the porous cement.

When the superior demon ripped strips of flesh from what had once been his bones, Weasel, unable to watch any more, floated away.

His prize, the thick metal chain, drew him.  It had been flung against the edge of his sibling’s nest.

Poor Snick.  How she’d wanted it.

The sounds of Tevildo purring, and chewing, rolled across the cement floor.

Weasel’s disembodied spirit floated deeper into the dark basement.  Vague notions fluttered through what remained of his elements.  If he could find his way to the Master’s Presence, he could draw on Melkor’s immense power and recharge.  Replenish himself and, eventually, be Weasel again.

As he drifted through the darkness, Weasel’s fëa passed a tall, dirty, standing mirror.  The streaked, reflective surface flickered.  Shimmered.  A psychic current flowed into the dusty glass and it trapped the little spirit, sucking him in.

Tevildo, enjoying his petty little victory, continued to rip off strips of prime meat.  Spat out a mouthful of fur here and there.  Reduced the carcass to a splayed mess. Then he heard footfalls echo in the warren of dark rooms.

Grabbing his kill by its torn throat, he dragged it away.  Tucking himself between two stacks of boxes, well out of sight, he settled down to finish his feast.

 

The face appeared calm but Kosomot knew the body language.  Intense eyes colder than amber fresh from the sea; skin taut over high cheekbones; both feet planted at shoulder width: Mairon furious.  Contained, as he was always contained, but furious none-the-less.

Little Miss felt it, too.  She squeezed between the Captain’s calves and watched the Lieutenant with large, worried eyes.

“ I’m sure you meant well, I truly am, but it’s a matter of personal space,”  Mairon spoke in a low, measured voice.  “ Perhaps you misinterpreted what I meant when I gave you money—”

He never had liked intruders.  Not in his smithy, or his experiment labs, library, and map rooms.  Especially not in his quarters atop Angband’s highest tower.  Intrusion was a flogging offense to Umaiar, yrch, and thrall alike.  The Master and Mairon’s servants—who knew to be silent and unobtrusive—had been the only beings exempt from the Lieutenant’s cruel lash.

Kosomot, for the first time in memory, found himself caught between the Great Dark devil and the Lesser Bright one.  In the past, they had pulled in tandem: Mairon sailing behind Melkor to tot numbers and tidy details left in the Vala’s turbulent wake.

“ Himself did it.” Kosomot blurted into Mairon’s sentence. 

He pressed gently on the dog’s ribs with his legs, to assure her, and reached down to fondle soft ears.

Mairon fell silent.  He frowned.  Then realization bloomed over his face and he shot a glare at the empty parking space where the black Bugatti Chiron usually sat.

“ Mr. Bell assembled my furniture?”

“ The…man…who delivered the bedroom furniture fell short of his duty.  Himself aided me in setting it right.  Once we got the boxes into your flat, Himself just…started putting everything together.”

“ And I thought I had OCD,” Mairon muttered under his breath.

Kosomot, no idea what that meant, stayed silent.  In times past, Mairon would have heaved a deep breath, become calm, and then indulgent.  Now he glowered at the empty parking space and rapped his foot sharply three times on the carriage house floor.

“ ‘Himself’, hmm?  Has our landlord aristocratic blood?”  The tone mocked.  “That would explain a great deal.”  Mairon, however, did not seem pleased by this revelation.

Kosomot decided now was no time to mention that Melkor had left instructions concerning a table and set of chairs.

“ Himself has His ways,” Kosomot tried to be diplomatic.  He had experience with the art after watching Marion practice it for long Ages in the face of Melkor’s Madness.  But he suspected his skill was not up to full marks, “ And He is accustomed to command.”

Mairon’s sharp eyes jerked back to Kosomot’s face.  Fine, golden-brown skin tightened over cheek and jawbone.  “ ‘ Accustomed to command’ is he?” Mairon didn’t really ask, though.

The dog crept forward to give the Lieutenant a look as if to ask if the fight were over, and Mairon held out a hand to her.  Her tail gave one uncertain wag.

“ No one’s upset with you, beautiful,” Mairon assured as he stroked her head and gave one pointed ear a gentle flop,  “ and my apologies to you, Kosomot, for making an assumption.  I’ve got a pork loin in the crockpot; would you join us for dinner this evening?”

“ It would be my pleasure.”

“ I don’t know where we'll eat it, probably paper plates on the backstairs, but I can promise fresh bread and another bottle of ginger beer.”

“ I look forward to it,” Kosomot would, he decided, let Lord Melkor wage the upcoming dining-table-battle.

 

 

The printer on the kitchen counter spat out copy after copy.  Kosomot watched.  His glance moved from the dog lying just inside Mairon’s back door to the rapidly growing stack of paper.

Twenty-five Lost Dog flyers complete with Mairon’s mobile phone number.

“ Do you want me to deal with the whole fiasco?”  Mairon asked.

Kosomot watched the Lieutenant slap a lump of gooey white dough onto the floured island top.  On a different counter, puffs of steam drifted from the crockpot.  The warm kitchen was redolent with the sweet smell of slow-cooked pork and gravy.

Faroula, barefoot, carried Mairon’s laptop into the room.  “ Keep the dog,” she said as she passed Kosomot, “ Don’t tell.  Rhonee kept a dorm mate’s hamster an entire holiday break, and we never knew.”  She showed her foster son the laptop screen, “What do you think of these curtains?”

“ A dog’s bigger than a hamster, Umi.  You can’t keep one in a cage in your closet.  That’s a very busy pattern.  Can you find something simpler?  Maybe sheer lace?”  Mairon kneaded his lump of dough with deft hands.  Press with the palm heels, lift, turn, press again, over and over, with an occasional pause to sprinkle more flour over his work surface.

“ They are little violets,”

“ There are a lot of them.  Simple lace in cream, or ivory,”

“  What about drapes?  Ms. Withywindle has nice drapes.  Lace curtains under drapes?”

“ Drapes would have to match both furniture and carpets.  Let’s start with curtains, Umi.”

“ The carpet store is closed today.”

Mairon shot Kosomot a look.  “ It’s Sunday.  Of course it’s closed.”

Faroula huffed.  She left the laptop on the island and went to the fridge.

The dog in the doorway lifted her head.

“ Yes, yes,” Faroula told her.

“ Don’t give her any ham.”  Mairon reminded.  He dropped his now smooth ball of dough into a waiting, oiled bowl.  “ Give me a piece of ham.”

“ Chicken for her, ham for us.”  Faroula took both bags of lunchmeat from the fridge.  “ Kosomot, ham?”  When the dog heard the packaging crinkle, she lurched to her feet.  Tail awag, she went to Faroula.  “ Yes, the last piece of chicken for you, yes, all yours.”

“ I would eat a piece of ham.”  Kosomot tried not to look at the printer and its stack of Lost Dog flyers.

The old woman put both deli bags on the counter by the crockpot.  After opening them, she rolled up several slices, “ You get the last _two_ pieces of chicken,” to the dog.

“ We could just go out for lunch,”  Mairon suggested.  He rubbed a bit of oil on the top of his dough before slipping it into the proofing drawer under the oven.

“ No, I am shopping.”  Faroula handed Kosomot a roll of ham and broke off a bite of chicken for Little Miss.

Mairon washed his hands, took his own piece of ham, and gave his mother a wry glance.  “ The point of shopping online is you do it at your leisure, Umi.  On your time.”

She waved her cylinder of ham at him, “ Make tea.”

“ Yes, Umi.”

Kosomot reached over and broke off another chunk of chicken.  Little Miss plonked herself down directly at his feet.  “ Ah,” the Captain sighed, “yes, here, my little friend.” He gave her the tidbit.

Faroula and Kosomot took turns doling out the chicken.  Mairon quietly put the kettle on and set up the teapot.  Then he scrubbed and washed up his workspace on the counter.

He checked the Lost Dog flyers spitting out of the printer.  A fingertip automatically pushed the stack into a neat pile.

“ We need a staple gun.  Or some industrial tape,” under his breath.  He remembered that, in the carriage house, there was a workbench with tools spread haphazardly over its surface.  “ Perhaps we could borrow Mr. Bell’s staple gun?”

Kosomot looked around where he fed the dog.  He nodded, unsure what a “staple gun” was and if Melkor owned one.  Chances were good, though, that the Master’s collection of tools, no matter how chaotic, was comprehensive.

The Captain was very aware of the dining room set that still waited outside Mairon’s front door.  He couldn’t puzzle out how he could persuade the proud Lieutenant to accept the Master’s gift.  He knew, of old, exactly how prickly Mairon’s pride could be: positively waspish.

Mairon set a timer on his phone, tucked it into his pocket, and, after watching Faroula fill the teapot, he gestured at his back door.  “Let’s go see if Mr. Bell owns a staple gun.”

Kosomot would rather have procrastinated, but he fell in behind Mairon’s straight back.  With the dog padding along before them, they descended the outside stairs.

Once in the carriage house, Little Miss sniffed around in corners.  Mairon pursed his lips at the haphazard pile of tools strewn over Melkor’s workbench.  He twitched once or twice, then, with a deep huff, began organizing the mess.

Little Miss started up the stairs, and, when she realized they weren’t following, sat down at the top to watch Mairon’s determined industry.

The wall behind the bench had little hanger nails and hooks, and Mairon quickly hung things up.  Systematically organized by category, the pile went down and the wall filled up until the wooden bench, with all its dents and scars, showed its face.

The Lieutenant handed Kosomot a silver contraption with a handle and squeeze lever.  Then a heavy little box.  It rattled.

 “ There.”  Mairon stepped back and assessed his handiwork.  “ How anyone could work like that…” under his breath.  He started to turn around then stopped.  Two long steps took him toward a pile of boxes.

Kosomot, at first, thought Mairon’s “organize” impulse had ahold of him, but after the redhead had shifted several boxes to the floor, and revealed a wooden structure made of heavy slats, he realized that the Lieutenant was on a mission.

“ If we borrow this picnic table, we won’t have to eat on our feet.”

The Captain watched as a table emerged from a pile of crap.  Most of the boxes were empty.  (With their tape seals intact, he suspected.)  The furniture beneath was crudely constructed, reminiscent of the trestles in Angband’s lower mess halls.

Together, Captain and Lieutenant carried the table, and its attached benches, out onto the driveway.  The silver-colored contraption and rattling box sat on its top.

Little Miss pattered down the stairs and followed them outside.

Mairon scanned the garden twice.  Looked up at the sky and rotated in place as he located the early afternoon sun above and mapped her trajectory over the property.

“ Over there,” He nodded toward a patch of shade under one of the tall, old elm trees.  “ It looks flat enough.”

Kosomot picked up his end and lugged the table across the grass.  The ground was, indeed, flat enough.  But the Captain hadn’t doubted.

The dog rooted amid the low flower bushes and, finding a chipmunk, chased the little creature across the grass to the stonewall.  As it frantically wiggled into a gap, Little Miss gave a soft woof and pawed at the rock.

“ Good girl, get him.”  Mairon laughed softly, “ She won't get him,” to Kosomot, “but she scared the shit out of him.”

Little Miss, eyes glowing and tail aloft, trotted over to where they stood and proudly accepted the hands-on love Mairon rubbed over her fur.  Then she looked expectantly at the Captain.

“ Yes, you are a fierce and capable hunter,” Kosomot leaned down to fondle her soft ears.  “ Ferocious.”  Afterward, she flopped on the grass beside the picnic table and surveyed the garden with smug satisfaction.

“ We have about an hour until I have to punch down that dough,” Mairon looked back into the carriage house.

The remaining mess obviously irked him and Kosomot knew he’d like to spend that hour breaking down empty boxes and straightening up.  So much that he actually took two paces toward the open door before he stopped himself, “ Maybe we’d best take a walk…”

Little Miss’s ears perked up and her head jerked around.

“ As you will,” Kosomot had to bite the word lieutenant off the end of his sentence.

“ Load that staple gun while I grab the flyers and tell Umi we’re going,” Mairon loped for the stairs.  Little Miss sprung to her feet.  Kosomot eyed the silver contraption on the table and growled under his breath.

As Mairon took the stairs two at a time, the Captain picked up the tool.  The dog padded down the driveway but stopped when she realized Kosomot wasn’t behind her.  She came back to poke his leg with her nose.

Someone had said “walk” and “walk” there had better be.

“ Woe to me,” Kosomot sighed down to her, “ I have no idea how this damn thing works.”  He picked it up and studied it.  She poked his leg twice more while he did.  He wished he had the Master’s ability to absorb the inherent knowledge in molecules then the damn thing would _tell_ him how to load it.

By the time Mairon returned, Kosomot had figured out two things: squeezing the handle made the contraption go “ker-chunk!” and that it spat out, at high speed, a sliver of bent metal.

“ No luck?”  Mairon traded him the stack of paper for the device.  “ Let’s see it.”

The dog, now very frustrated, paced toward the end of the driveway and back again.

“ Just a minute, girl,” Mairon muttered, “ One more second,” as he pressed a button.  There was a metallic popping noise. 

Mairon slid a little bar out of the damn thing’s bottom.  Opening the rattling box with one hand, he pulled out a long, u-shaped metal band and dropped it, face down, onto the bar.  Three were enough to fill it and Mairon slid the bar back into the device.  “ There we go.”

“ Do not get lost,” Faroula emerged onto the second story landing.  Her face was a study in suppressed amusement.

The dog woofed at her.

“ No, I stay,” as if the animal could understand her, “ but you have fun without me, no?  Much sniffing and scaring squirrels, eh?  No catching, though, just chasing.”

“ I have my phone,” Mairon told her, tapping his shirt pocket, “ call me if you need me.”

“ Go, go,” She laughed aloud.

Mairon whistled for Little Miss, and Kosomot was amazed at how fast the dog’s attention focused at the sound.  She darted to the Lieutenant and looked up at him.

“ Walkies.”

Little Miss pranced and turned circles on grass.  When Mairon started up the drive, the dog fell in at his side—tail up and quivering.  Kosomot, too, fell in.  Just before they reached the quiet road, Mairon waved to the old woman.

Faroula waved back and watched as they turned onto the sidewalk.  Letting herself back into the kitchen, she went immediately for the pantry.

Once Mairon’s temper had calmed, he’d thanked her for doing the dishes and washing up the new cookware.  Telling him she had done neither would have agitated him again…to no purpose.

Faroula found the milk bowl she’d left on the pantry floor.  Licked clean.  Obviously, the offering had been acceptable, and the bargain sealed.

Jinn, she knew, had a serious weakness for milk and honey.  According to folklore, even a thimbleful was enough to win their goodwill.  A whole bowl, it seemed, garnered much more.

“ You live with him in peace,” she rinsed the bowl and put it in the dishwasher.  “He can be a very good boy if he feels he’s valued.”  Getting down a fresh bowl, she mixed a new batch and warmed it in the microwave before she put it down.

Faroula shut the door.  Jinn did not like to be spied upon.

She checked the rising dough in the proofing draw and plugged in Mairon’s laptop.  As she puttered, her eye fell on the joint he’d half smoked last night.  It sat on the island, in a teacup saucer, and she touched it with one fingertip.

“ You drink,” she told the empty kitchen, “ I wait outside.”  Lifting the large roach, she lit it from one gas burner—very carefully.  Taking it, and the saucer, with her out onto the landing, she sat down.  And coughed her brains out on the first real hit.

And the second.  So she stopped after a third.  But it was enough to remind her of her own days at back at Ruvik University in Herum Province.

Dropping the joint in the saucer, she muttered, “ Tea is civilized.  Tea does not stink up the neighborhood, or make you cough.”

As she was grumbling, Mr. Bell’s ridiculously expensive car turned off the main road and purred down the long drive.  Faroula rose to her feet as the Bugatti glided to a stop.  Bell emerged from behind the wheel.  She darted into Mairon’s kitchen.

Faroula plopped a generous portion of rice pudding into a bowl.  Grabbing a spoon, she hurried back outside.

He was Roni’s type and ridiculously rich.  Sometimes, her boy’s pride did him no favors.  This wouldn’t be the first time she circumvented Mairon’s stiff neck for his benefit.

Bell had parked his car beside Roni’s.  The carriage house doors stood open.  She could see the big man standing just inside, a black suit coat draped over his arm and a manila folder in one hand, with his back to her.

So she waited silently, cradling the still warm pudding in both hands.

He left the doors open behind him when he emerged a few moments later.  Seeing Mairon’s Audi and Bell’s Bugatti parked side-by-side, taillights reflecting in the early afternoon sunlight, Faroula took it as A Sign.  Some things, after all, were meant to be.

“ Good afternoon, Professor Tesazdi.”  Bell looked up at her, a half smile on his face, as he mounted the first landing.

His were an angular, powerful sort of good looks and a strong impression struck Faroula: he and Mairon would complement one another perfectly.

What did the children say today?  A beautiful power couple.

She smiled.  “ My father was Professor Tesazdi, please to call me Faroula, yes?”

“ According to Google, you’re Professor Tesazdi.  And you offer tutoring in Haradi’Bandi Lit and Poetry.”

She grinned.  “ Rhonee did not like that Minrith University would not recognize my degrees.  When he was fifteen, he made them review the case three times.  I think they granted my degrees just to make him stop.”

She offered the bowl of pudding.

“ He bombarded the Reagent House and the Uni Council,” she chuckled, “ he writes very nasty letters when he’s angry.”

(As Melkor knew full well.  In Utumno, there’d been three massive chambers filled floor to vaulted ceiling with Mairon’s letters.  Five such chambers in Angband.

Some ten thousand, five hundred, and sixty-something missives, alone, bitching about that babbling idiot, Spy-Master Oresh.  In Mairon’s opinion, a spy-master should collect information not spew it like an erupting volcano. 

Not to mention three thousand odd documents complaining about a Balrog called Gureg.  Melkor never had figured out what offense Gureg had committed.  Probably none. Mairon simply detested him.)

Bell took the offered bowl in his free hand.

“ Rice pudding,”  Faroula announced triumphantly.  She reached out and relieved him of his suit coat and manila folder.

(Melkor looked at the lumpy white goo and took a tentative sniff.  It smelled…good.  Like cinnamon and nutmeg.  So he dared a small spoonful.)

“ This is delicious,” Bell’s angular face lit.  He took a second, bigger spoonful.

“ Rhonee’s favorite, when he was little,”  Faroula announced.  “ Thank you for rolling the weed for me,” she gestured at the half joint in its tea saucer.  “ He ate like a wolf and slept ‘til after eight.  He is,” she confided, “ very testy today.  He always is after one of his migraines.”

(Melkor knew all about that, too.  He nodded as he polished off the rice pudding.)

“ So the dining table and chairs are still in the front hall.”

Bell handed her back the empty bowl.  He swiped his thumb over the corner of his lips, collecting a stray grain of sweet, sticky rice, and licked the last morsel into his mouth.  “ I’ll bring them in and set them up.”

Faroula paused.  It would start a…what was the word in Westron?  A shitstorm.  But Mairon was too good at shutting out people.  Potential friends and lovers alike.  If he was engaged, even if it had to be in anger, then he couldn’t completely push Bell away.

“ Let me get out of this suit.”  Bell took back his coat and folder.  “ I assume he cleaned off my workbench and organized all my tools.”

“ He and Kosomot needed a staple gun.”

“ Not a problem.” (Melkor had three.  All stolen.)  “ I’ll be right back.”

Faroula watched the big man ascend the stairs and let himself into his flat.

Grinning to herself, she scooped up the joint in its tea saucer.  Humming, she took them back into Mairon’s kitchen.  The boy was almost thirty-five; it was time he settled down.  With a rich husband.

 

“ Would you post this in your front window?” Mairon showed a flyer to a bored teenager in the corner shop.

Without looking up from her tabloid headlines, she reached under the counter.  A tape dispenser thunked on the counter.  She pushed it toward him.

Shooting a wry look at Kosomot and Little Miss where they waited outside, Mairon taped up the last flyer.  Then he tossed the dispenser back on the counter and looked around the little place.

Milk, eggs, and packaged meats in a small cooler unit in the back.  Two tall shelves stocked with marmite, jams, and packaged crumpets.  Under the counter, a wide range of candy and chocolate bars.  Behind it, a display of travel-pack sized medicines and a wide range of condoms.

Everything very expensive.

“ Thanks.” Mairon’s sardonic voice didn’t register with the girl.

“ Have a nice day.” In a tone that said she didn’t care if he lived or died.

Mairon went back to where Kosomot and Little Miss waited.

“ That’s that, then.  Let’s head back.”

The giant man with shocking red hair looked sad, but he nodded.

“ I know you’re not happy about this,”  Mairon said as they walked up the low-grade hill toward the old mansion.

“ It pleases me little.”  Kosomot muttered, “ For it seems she has been my friend for more than just these past three days.”

“ Dogs get into your heart easily.” Mairon sympathized, “ Don’t you, you furry little urine factory?”

She’d peed on every shrub at the park and every light pole to which they’d stapled a flyer.

Giving Mairon a grin, Little Miss paused to add her scent to a post box.

Halfway up the road, Mairon’s phone rang.  Thinking it was Faroula, he pulled it from his pocket.  One red-brown eyebrow went up in surprise.

Mairon excused himself to Kosomot, “ I’d better take this.”  He answered the call.

“ Good afternoon, Ms. Featherstone.”

“ Mairon Smith, where have you been?  General opinion is you died.”

“ My flat died.  In a blazing inferno.  Came home on a Tuesday night to discover I owned a sizable pile of ash.”

“ That’s terrible!”

“ I was not thrilled.”  Mairon made an apologetic face at Kosomot. The giant man and the dog kept their pace while Mairon slowed his.  “ I’m sorry, Kallie, I thought Marcus would tell you I had to scramble for a new place to lay my head.”

“ Marcus doesn’t discuss business at Munches.  In fact, he, like you, rarely graces us with his presence.  It rather surprised me when he called to say you were both coming this month.”

Mairon stopped walking.  “ Did he?”  Keeping irritation out of his voice through long practice, “ And when did he do this?”

“ Yesterday.  I thought I’d ring to confirm and to let you know it’s Bring-A-Dish, not catered.  It’s been a long time since you treated us to your kebabs and rice…”

Mairon gave a short laugh.  It held little actual amusement.

There was a long pause.  Then, Kallie Featherstone asked him, “ You’re not attending the Munch?” in a careful voice.

“Oh, I’ll be there.  And so will my chicken shawarma kebabs and mujaddara.”

“ Is everything all right, Mairon?”

 “ It’s nothing to bother yourself with.”

“ Mairon, I don’t like to pry, but Marcus sounded…a bit odd.  And now you sound…a bit odd.”  Another silence.  Then, “ Do you need…community support?”

He made sure that Kosomot and Little Miss, up the road, were out of earshot.

Biting back a growl, “ I don’t need our local Domini rushing to save my lil subbie ass.”

“ Mairon,”

“ Kallie, I’m perfectly capable of dealing with a Dom who’s overstepping his mark.”

“ I…see…  Do you want me to have Stuart call you?”

“ No.  Absolutely not.  This is between Marcus and me.”

“ May I ask what’s going on?”

Mairon stared, unseeing, at Kosomot and the dog where they waited for him at the next corner.  After a moment’s debate, “ I’m done with Marcus.”

After yet another long pause, “ But…”

Mairon shot back, “ ‘But’ what?”

“ That’s not the impression he gave.”

“ Oh, really?”  Mairon’s voice became ultra-controlled and clipped, “ And what impression does he give, exactly?”

“ Rather the opposite.  He asked Stuart where he bought my collar.  And if hotel management would freak out if we…booked a ceremony and a reception.”

Mairon sucked in a furious breath.  He glared at nothing and drove a hand through his loose hair.

“ Mairon?  Mairon?  Are you still there?”

“ I’m here.  I’m…give me a second…” turning a circle where he stood.

“ Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Stuart?” Kallie’s anxious voice asked again.

“ No.”  He tried to focus.  It wasn’t Kallie he wanted to snarl at, he reminded himself.  She was just a fellow submissive.  One lucky enough to have a Dom who abided by their contract.  “No.  Don’t trouble Stuart.  There’s not going to be a collaring or a reception afterward.  I told Marcus it was over, and I meant it.  It was never anything but business.”

“ Give me permission to tell Stuart what’s going on, Mairon.  He needs to know if another Dom is acting out of bounds.  It’s his place to keep track of these things.”

As president of the local Club, it was Stuart’s place.  And Mairon responded with a grudging, “ All right.  Give him the bare bones of it,” because the kink community had to police itself.  “ I’ve got to run, Kallie.  Put me down for kebabs and rice and save me a seat?”

“ Not at Marcus’ table,” she confirmed.  “ I’ll see you on the twenty-eighth.”

“ The twenty-eighth, got it.  Thank you.”

Long strides took him to where Kosomot and Little Miss loitered.  They crossed the intersection together and the mansion’s drive came into view at the top of the low-grade hill above them.

“ Everything all right?”  Kosomot asked as Little Miss stopped to water yet another hedge.

Mairon spoke from irritation, before thinking, “ Just a jackass who needs a shovel upside the head,”

He shut his mouth.  _Oh, brilliant, Smith, utterly brilliant,_ he thought, _normal people don’t think these things.  They certainly don’t say them aloud…_

So much for this budding friendship.  Over, before it had even begun.

Kosomot, thinking of Lungorthin, said, “ A good crack and a shallow hole,”

Mairon glanced around in surprise.  A tentative hope blossomed to life in his chest, “Or some rope, rocks, and a deep river…”

Kosomot took immense pleasure at a mental image of how Lungorthin would hiss and steam… “Yea, verily.”

As they reached the end of the long drive, the timer on Mairon’s phone beeped.  Little Miss raced ahead of them hoping to find another chipmunk to terrify.

“ Well, at least I can beat the bread.”  Mairon took out his phone and stopped the alarm. 

He had no idea what awaited him in his flat.

 

A mug of coffee and a plate of microwave food sat untouched on the counter.  Melkor ignored both as he strode through the kitchen.

Thrusting His manila folder at Vole, Melkor headed for the master bedroom.  Snick sat on the countertop with a confused look on her triangular little face.  She and Vole stared after the Master.

Rat, just finishing the last pile of paperwork, earned a wordless growl before the Dark Vala disappeared into the back of the flat. 

There would be no praise. 

She was out of Favor and felt it like an arctic wind swirling in chest and belly.

She dragged herself into the kitchen.

The Swarm, who’d wolfed a lunch chicken nuggets and potato crisps, hid.

Vole handed Rat the manila folder and chittered.  He wanted her to tell Snick that she had done well and Rat dredged up the energy to nod and warble lack-luster appreciation.

Snick leapt from the counter and pulled open the cabinet doors under the sink.  “Weaza, snick-snick-snick!” The little creature sang in triumph.  “ Weaza?”  She disbursed her form and slipped behind the cabinetry.   It was, after all, Weasel’s usual hiding spot.  A moment later, she emerged as a puff of smoke and took shape.  “Weaza?” to Vole, “Snick?”

Vole looked at Rat’s face, into her dull black eyes, and read her perfectly.  She was demoralized, and tired.  The responsibilities of a Superior Rank Maia were taking their toll.

In His bedroom, the Master snarled out a curse. 

Vole thought to Rat that she should hide in one of Lord Mairon’s closets and regroup.

Rat nodded.

Vole took Snick’s hand and, with a soft warble, offered to help find her friend. 

Snick squeezed Vole’s fingers and tugged on him.

The Master, now in a pair of blue jeans and a dark blue jumper, strode into the kitchen.  Melkor dropped a pair of slip-on running shoes on the floor, stepped into them, and let Himself back out the kitchen door.  All without a glance for the Umaiar.

Rat abandoned her flesh and, as a wisp of smoke, flowed into the nearest air duct.

Snick hauled Vole along behind her as she went in search of Weasel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's title is adapted from The Mamas and The Papas song "Monday, Monday"
> 
> If you're reading this, thank you for getting this far. IF you choose to leave a comment, you have the love of a goofy lil mouse who fancies herself a writer. Ahhh, even if you don't leave a comment, you have a mouse's love. Shall we just keep going? Yes, let's keep going...


	21. Witenagemot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Witenagemot or Witan: an Anglo-Saxon national council or parliament. Old English, from witena, genitive plural of wita ‘wise man’ + gemōt ‘meeting’
> 
> The Valar are still very much in Presence.

January 13, 2019

 

**_Witenagemot_ **

 

 

“ Fireworks, FIREWORKS!”

A dozen children’s voices pleaded outside floor-to-ceiling windows.  Their cries filtered into the room.  A small woman rose from her tea table and moved to stare out the glass. 

She drank in the sound of young, exuberant voices.  Clad, as she was, in a tatty grey cardigan, a nondescript grey skirt, and comfortable shoes, she appeared incongruous in the elegant little parlor.

 Beyond lacy curtains, huge formal gardens brimmed with activity.  Children ranged far and wide.  They darted over stone laid paths and played hide-and-seek amid carefully cultivated rose bushes.  Far down the rolled lawn, a ball cracked against a cricket bat.

A tender smile curved the woman’s face as she stared at the little figures on her lawn.

“ Lady Nienna?”

“ Shh, Tehri,” She gave her attendant an amused glance over one delicate shoulder.

Outside, a deep masculine voice exclaimed, “ Fireworks?”  He teased, “ It’s the middle of the afternoon, we haven’t even had tea—how are you going to see my fireworks if the sun’s bright in the sky?”

The lady shifted a lace curtain.  A gaggle of children clustered around the speaker.  He was not handsome, but his angular face was kind.  And that kindness radiated forth as he knelt amid the children and listened to their clamoring little voices.

“ But we want them now,”

“ How long ‘til dark?”

“ I don’t want tea, I want **fireworks!** ”

“ Why not tea _and_ fireworks?” He reached out to stroke a small head.  “ It would be a shame to waste her ladyship’s tea, wouldn’t it?  Cream-cakes, and jam-scones, and plenty of lemonade to wash them down.  Be patient, and I promise you won’t be disappointed in the show I’ve prepared for you.”

“ Oh, Ollie,” Nienna sighed, “ Dear, dear Ollie,”

Her attendant slipped up beside her.  Together, they watched “Ollie” calm the discontented children and send most of them back to the garden games.

“ Why the long face, my friend?”

“ I want to watch the cricket but I can’t push my chair across the grass.  It’s too soft.  My wheels keep sinking.”

“ I could carry you down to the pitch?”

“ What about my chair?”

“ Oh, I think I can manage both.”  Ollie lifted the boy from his wheelchair.  Once he tucked the youngster on his hip, he folded up the chair.  As he rose, he picked it up.  With the boy in one arm and the wheelchair under the other, he set off, straight-backed and strong, down the garden.

“ Dear Ollie,” Nienna murmured again, “ How proud you both make me, how very proud.”

And despite dowdy clothes and mousey brown hair, Tehri’s eyes adored her mistress’s delicate face, her velvet grey eyes, and her deceptively fragile appearance.  “Where you lead, we follow, my lady.  Forever and always.  It is an honour to learn from you.”

“ And my honour to teach,” she whispered, reaching out to clasp Tehri’s hand, “such Maiar as you.”

“ M’lady Nienna,” Tehri’s worried eyes darted across the elegant little parlor even though they were alone.  She pressed the lady’s fingers between her own in caution.

“ Ah, what would I do without you?”  Nienna Núri pulled the Maia closer and went up on tiptoe to kiss a soft, tan cheek.

Without warning, the parlor door swung open.  Valie and Maia broke apart.  Tehri moved forward to put herself between her lady and the door.

“ Little sister,” an imperious voice hailed.  Varda, all elegance, dominated the little parlor with her mere presence.  The Star-Kindler took in Nienna’s worn cardi, drab skirt, and clunky shoes.  Her perfect lips formed a small, momentary, moue of distaste.  “ Your gardens teem with tiny creatures.  How inconsiderate, to have one of your little functions today.”

“ My ‘little function’ was planned long before you called a Witan,” Nienna, expression serene, stepped around Tehri.  She offered both hands as Varda approached, “ Sister, welcome.”

“ You couldn’t have canceled or postponed it, I suppose,” even as Varda leaned down to kiss Nienna’s pale cheek.

“ Most certainly not.  Coordinating with five foster councils took months.”

“ They’re very noisy.”

“ They’re children,” Nienna smiled, “ they’re supposed to be noisy.  Come in, may we offer you tea?”

Varda glided past Nienna to the windows.  “ Are we the first to arrive?”  She pulled aside the curtains to stare out on the busy gardens.

“ My brothers are here somewhere, as are Vairë and Estë.  Ulmo sent Salmar to Speak for him,”

“ He must stop this,” Varda frowned, “and Attend when my husband calls.”

Nienna ignored that and continued, “ Aulë and Yavanna warned us they’d be late, and Nessa texted.  She and Tulkas are caught in traffic.  They should arrive soon.”  Nienna spotted a familiar figure hovering in the hallway just outside the door, “Good afternoon, Ilmarë, how are you today?”

“ Well, Lady Clemence, thank you.”

“ Tehri, take Ilmarë out into the gardens.  See she has something to drink, and eat.”

“ Yes, m’lady.”

“ And Eönwë.  He’s not on duty now.”

“ Certainly, m’lady.” The Maia dipped her head as she slipped past.

Nienna closed the door.  “ Where is Manwë?”

“ He saw the nestlings flocked in your rosebushes and there was no containing him.  I believe he joined a game of ‘hide-and-seek’.”

“ Do let me pour you a cuppa, sister,” Nienna returned to her little table and its silver tea service.  “ I could send for coffee, if you’d rather?”

Varda’s cool blue eyes spotted something out the window.  Her lips pursed.  “ Tea will do,” she turned, “ I see you’ve commandeered my Olórin.”

“ He’s a tremendous help,” Nienna gave a soft laugh, “ and his fireworks are always the highlight of the day.  He offers his Service, sister.  Had you a Purpose for him?”  She righted one of the unused teacups on her tray and filled it from the silver pot.

“ No,” Varda sighed and sat down.  As she picked up her tea, “ How will you advise Aulë on the matter at hand?  I expect I cannot hope for your support…”

“ Aulë must do as he sees fit with his Maiar.  And no, I’m afraid I do not take your position.”

“ Madness,” Varda hissed behind her cup, “foolishness.”

Two sharp raps sounded on the door.

“ Yes?” Nienna called.

“ My dear,” a man let himself in and paused with the door open at his back.  His face shared her cheekbones and the shape of her eyes, but beyond that…

“ Yes, Irmo?”

He was a stylish figure, tall and radiating confident power.  He wore expensive but understated casual clothes.  His sable brown hair perfectly cut above oddly mismatched eyes: the left was black and the right was velvet grey.

“ Do you have a private spot I could use?” He gestured behind him.  A little girl peeked around the door casing.  “Gemma wants a chat.”

“ It’s okay, Dr. Lórien,”

“ Not at all, not at all, my dear.  Lady Clemence understands.  Sometimes we all feel a little sad and need to talk to someone.” He spoke to the child, then to Nienna, “Gemma lost a friend recently,”

“ My boo-kitty,”

“ Oh no!” Nienna rose, “ How sad!”

“ He got runned over,”

“ There’s a lovely room next door you and Dr. Lórien can have all to yourselves.  It’s the music room.  No one will disturb you.  Excuse me a moment, Varda,” she put her cup back into its saucer.

“ Of course.”  Varda sipped her tea while the other three disappeared into the hall.  She watched the garden through the lace curtains and gave a faint, elegant sigh as she caught sight of her errant husband amid the roses.

Almost seven feet of broad-shouldered, ash blonde man carried a child on his back and one on his hip as he danced his way around the greenery.  For a moment, his pale eyes met hers despite the lacy curtains between them.  Manwë flashed his rare and beautiful smile.

“ Silly,” she whispered in a love-laden voice.

The windows were open, and she heard him say to the children, “If we hide behind that trellis, we’ll be very hard to find indeed.  Can you be quiet?”

“ I can be quiet, Mr. Manwë,”

“ I can be quieter!”

“ All right then!” He loped out of view.

“ Sitting alone?”

Varda dragged her eyes from the garden to find Vairë, willow-slim, lovely and sporting an apron, poised in the doorway.

“ Only while our hostess settles Lórien and an impromptu client down for a session.  What have you been about?”

Vairë slipped the apron straps over her head and, folding the stained fabric on one arm, moved into the room.  “ I’ve been helping in the kitchen: assembling finger sandwiches, spreading jam on scones and organizing cream-cakes.  I usually do when Nienna hosts one of her events.”

The Weaver had left the door open behind her and a new figure slipped in.  Estë sighed and, going to the little tea table, collapsed into what had been Nienna’s seat. 

Almond-shaped eyes slid closed. 

“ I need a nap,” she yawned and settled herself deep in the winged armchair.  Folding her hands in her lap, Estë gave a delighted purr, “ This is nice.”

Shrieking laughter split the air just outside the windows.

“ Oh,” Estë groaned and sat up.  She adjusted the folds of her pearl-colored silk dress, glanced out the window with a little pout, then focused on the tea service. “Is there anything left in that pot?”

Vairë hid a smile.  “ Will you nap through the Witan, little sister?”

Estë gave the other Valie another pout, “ It’s all well and good for you, you’re used to daytime industry.  I’m at my best from gloaming onward.”  She stole Nienna’s empty teacup.  “ This will help until we can settle today’s business,” adding generous amounts of cream and sugar to the amber liquid.  After a sip, “Aulë’s not going to be happy,” to Varda, “with you.  Again.”

“ Aulë caused this problem in the first place.”

“ I always placed the blame elsewhere,” Vairë retorted sardonically.  She, finally, joined them.  She pulled a headband from her thick, dark brown curls and wiped a fleck of breadcrumb from one glistening, ebony cheek.

To an unknowing eye, it was a lovely scene of three attractive women—one drop-dead gorgeous and two only slightly less beautiful—gathered in the afternoon sunlight over a little table.

Nienna returned, and with her yet another woman.  “ Look who's arrived,”

“ Why are you all in here?” Demanded the newcomer, “ So sober!”

“ Hello, Nessa.” Varda dipped her head.

Agile and pretty, clad in slimline clothing with nothing to inhibit her movement, she crossed gracefully to the table and scolded, with exuberance, “ Oromë has archery lessons.  Salmar is giving swimming lessons.  My own dear love, just arrived, is arranging a tug-o-war.  Námo is reading aloud in the library.  I saw Manwë and Eönwë queuing up for the three-legged race.  And here you sit!”

 “ I’ve spent all morning organizing tea,” Vairë laughed, “and am enjoying a well-deserved break, thank you very much.”

“ We got here at eight.  I’m tired,” Estë grumbled, “Daytime isn’t my forte.  My lord is content playing child psychiatrist.”

“ Playing?” Nienna breathed out.  She frowned.

“ We’re waiting for Yavanna  and Aulë.” Varda pronounced coolly.

“ ‘Vanna had a horticulture show this morning,” Nienna explained, smoothing over her features, “ she’s commissioned with next season’s show at the Royal Gardens.  It’s important to her.”

“ Of course it is,” Nessa exclaimed, “and I’m sure Aulë is designing all sorts of lovely displays, benches, and irrigation systems.  Well, I’m going to see if I can’t get some music organized and start the little ones dancing.  What a good thing you’re doing here, Nienna, I wish you’d invited me before!”

“ I did.”

“ Did you?  I don’t recall,”

“ You must have been distracted.”

A brown-haired man, surrounded by a pack of running children, leapt to a halt just outside the windows.  He lifted a recurve bow, loaded with a sucker-top plastic arrow, and let fly.  The arrow stuck to the glass, its shaft bouncing and yellow plastic fletching a blur.  Tossing his long braid over his shoulder, he shouted, “Cake!”

“We want cake!” A dozen children, clustered around his legs, cheered and shook their bows in the air.

Bringing up the rear, a woman with golden curls hefted a little girl in her arms, “And lemonade!”

“ Lemonade!” echoed the girl.  She wore big white roses tucked behind each ear.

Vairë laughed aloud, “ Oromë and Vána say it’s time for tea,  I’d best get back to the kitchen and start the food flowing.”  She got to her feet and slipped back into her apron.

“ Thank you,” Nienna said, very soberly.

“ My pleasure, sister, it makes a nice change from sitting at my loom.” Vairë grinned, “ Estë, come lend a hand.”  She strode for the door.

Heaving a deep sigh, the woman in pearlescent silk dragged to her feet.  “Coming,”

“ I’ll help,” Nessa turned to follow Estë, “ And after tea, I’ll set up dancing lessons.  Easy ones.” To Nienna over her shoulder.

“ I should really…” Nienna looked after them.

Varda gave a regal dip of her head, “ Go.”

“ You’ll join us outside for tea?”

“ I’ll wait for Aulë and Yavanna.  Send Ilmarë to me when you see her.”

“ As you will, Majesty,” Nienna tucked her tatty cardigan tighter around her middle and left.

Varda ignored the bustling activity in Nienna’s extensive gardens.

Casting her senses out, again and again like a fishing net, she perceived prayers in her Name from across the planet.  Heard soft supplications, despite a wide expanse of space, from that distant sphere on which the last of elven kind dwelt in peaceful but slowly dwindling numbers.  And stretched her attention even farther.

Her consciousness skated over the trajectories of planets and stars, comets and meteors, plasma currents and dust clouds.  Varda sought the least hint that their eldest sibling roamed free.  She even skimmed perilously close to the gravity wells of black holes, Belekôrôz’s manifestation in the Void’s depths…and at the core of every galaxy.

The Queen found the delicate balances aligned and moving in harmonious order.  It did not comfort her.

Her watcher, ever vigilant, hung bright in the sky.  A pristine point slowly moving in a trajectory that edged farther away as each Age passed.  His spirit, although half-mortal, remained undiminished by the strength of his Purpose.

That growing distance had, previously, been the means to alert them, with ample warning, when Melkor burst the Door of his prison and erupted once more onto this plane of existence.

Not every Cycle played out the same but there was one constant:  Melkor returned, wild with rage, to exact vengeance for the wrongs he perceived suffered upon him.  No matter what small variations shifted within the Music, Melkor’s Theme of Revolt and Revenge thundered across this universe.  His return heralded the end of the current Cycle and the pause for Reflection before the new one began.

Varda thought back to the Cycles before Melkor had found, and suborned, the Maia gifted with the name Thû at its inception.  The spirit called Mairon, Gorthaur, Annatar, or Sauron in his many manifestations.

Cycles where Melkor, devolved in utter, obsessive madness, had essentially defeated himself before their forces swept in to finish what he had started.  Cycles filled with swift, decisive victories.  

Recently, however, Melkor had claimed a tremendous advantage and brought himself closer and closer to victory.

Varda knew who to blame.

“ An Unmaking upon you,” she muttered, “ o cunning hobgoblin.  I will _not_ see you prosper.”  She took a sip from her tea and found it had gone cold.  With an unlovely grimace of distaste, she discarded cup and saucer on the little table.

At that moment, Ilmarë came through the parlor door.  Witness to that angry grimace, and the clattering abandonment of the china, she almost cried aloud in pain.  Felt a shaft of anxious dismay disproportionate to an employee/employer relationship. 

“Miss Varda,” Ilmarë hurried to the other woman’s side, “what’s troubled you?  How can I help?”  She sank to her knees beside Varda’s chair.

“ Oh, my dear,” Varda touched Ilmarë’s shoulder, “I’m just impatient to see today’s business settled.  It would make my mind easier.  Nothing more.”  A hand under Ilmarë’s elbow encouraged her to her feet.  “ Though, I’d be pleased to hear that Yavanna and her husband have finally arrived?”

“ I don’t think so.  I’m not sure.  Shall I go ask?”

“ We’ll go together, my dear.” Varda gave her Handmaiden a comforting smile.

A Maia was a Maia, despite its lack of self-knowledge.  Even after three decades, after creating them backgrounds and personalities to match, after mortal educations and hobbies, the Maiarin Nature resonated true.

Eönwë spent more time at their mansion than in his own luxury flat.  Ate dinner with them almost every night and regularly popped in during weekends.  Amused Manwë with games of billiards, brought him new music, and arranged their weekly schedule.

Ilmarë had flown back from her first annual holiday, at a seaside resort on the Andas beachhead, when Varda had unthinkingly called her to answer one question.  That had been the last, the only, time Ilmarë took a holiday.

Even Mairon, clandestine inquiries reported, ignored his yearly holiday leave.  Diligently laboring from dawn ‘til dusk in Aulë’s labs and offices, he coordinated production teams, kept Aulë abreast of the latest scientific advances, and dutifully, stoically, attended the social events he so disliked,  just as he had before his treachery and defection.

Ruthlessly efficient and always thinking, a Maia one step ahead, and off to the side, from the rest of his kind.

A perfidious monster of a Maia.

And to think, she had once delighted in his jewelry, his singing, his fireworks.

 It irked her that Mairon had first concocted black powder and discovered its explosive properties.  That she’d wondered from her throne at the rainbow hues flashing overhead in dark skies.

And the use to which he’d later turned his discovery: petards and incendiary bursts flung from catapults!

_He will **not** prosper.  I will **never** permit him anything he desires!_

To Ilmarë, “ Perhaps they need more hands, my dear.  We might as well do something while we wait.”

“ Yes, Miss Varda.”

They spent the rest of the afternoon pouring lemonade into little plastic cups.  Distributing finger sandwiches from large platters onto smaller ones to supply the tables set up beside Nienna’s rose gardens.  Made sure there were plenty of tiny cream and jam cakes when it came time for dessert.

The time passed swiftly.

And the small mortals actually made it fun. 

Varda was almost disappointed when Aulë and Yavanna appeared among them.

But, still, the day’s business must wait.

Earlier in the week, Aule had sent ahead a lorry load of toys—small but high quality.  Yavanna had donated packages of veggie seeds to send home with the children.  It seemed this was their contribution to all Nienna’s events.  And they attended every one.

Aulë had gone so far as to acquire a toy factory.  Yavanna grinned as she whispered to Vána, “ Bought an old one and refurbished the entire thing.  Unimaginable cost, as you can imagine, but worth every penny.  It makes him so happy.”

Vána laughed, then scolded, “ If you’d told me, I’d have sent flower seeds.  Peapods and carrots, sister, really!”

“ Vegetables are good for them.”

An hour before sunset, they finally convened in Nienna’s library.  Manwë joined them last.  He paused in the doorway and turned to a trailing Eönwë.

“ No, thank you, I won’t need you for this.”

Eönwë fidgeted uncomfortably and murmured.

“ No, we won’t be taking notes.  Why don’t you help the others clean up?  Then you can help Megda and Ilmarë organize the gift bags so when it’s time to get the children on the buses, everything goes smoothly.”

“ Yes, sir,” unhappily.

“ It’s all right, Eönwë.”

“ Yes, sir,” no less unhappily.

“ Go enjoy yourself, that’s an order.”

“ Yes, sir,” with a deep sigh, the Maia finally withdrew.  There was no way his Nature would permit him to disobey.

“ My poor Herald,” Manwë had his own sigh.  He sat beside Varda and took her hand in his.  “ I dislike this subterfuge.  I dislike that the little ones cannot know themselves.  It confuses and distresses them.”

“Self-knowledge would lead the Enemy right to them.” Orome said, “ It’s for their protection, Majesty.  Let their safety be a comfort to your heart.”

“ If there were any sign that Bel had returned, I would.” Manwë frowned and looked around the room.  “ Perhaps my brother will not return this time.  Perhaps we ask much of our Maiar for naught.”

Salmar, seated just outside their circle, looked very uncomfortable.  Inched his chair back, trying to find a bit of shadow for cover.  He’d refused the armchair meant for Ulmo.

Varda and Manwe occupied a plush divan.  There was space for a third person, but it remained empty.  Around the reigning couple, the others formed a loose ring of wing chairs and heavy, upholstered armchairs.

“ We are assembled.  The Witan is in Session.” Varda announced.

“ Let us have the matter to hand,” Nienna’s feet did not reach the floor.  Námo sat one side of her and Irmo occupied the other. 

The Fëanturi manifested as mirror twins, despite not being twins at all.  Where Irmo’s left eye was black and his right eye grey, Námo’s were reversed.  Námo’s sable dark hair swept left and Irmo’s swept right.

Between their dramatic appearance, Nienna Núri looked like a little titmouse, grey-feathered and dull.  In fact, amid all of them, she chose not to manifest as her divine self.

 Only she, however, had assumed an aristocratic title.  Called herself Countess Clemence and summoned this large estate and Manor House.  Here in the sparsely populated countryside, both title and estate allowed for her many acts of charity, like today’s function.

No one questioned an eccentric countess donating her time and fortune to hospitals, foster councils, soup kitchens, and homeless shelters.

“ Why are we here?” Aulë, usually bluff and smiling, glanced around their circle in suspicion.

Yavanna, who had an idea, avoided his eyes.

“ It comes to my attention that you intend to elevate that treacherous little recreant to Vice President of Research and Development,” Varda announced without prevarication.

“ My dear,” Manwë murmured.

The others, particularly Tulkas, burst into a momentary clamor.  Nienna and Yavanna stayed silent.  Salmar tried to inch his seat back a little more.

“ What I do in my own Halls is my affair.” Aulë retorted, “ As you well know, Majesty.”

“ Not when you’ve apparently lost your mind.” Varda snapped.  Chin up, eyes narrow, she gave him her coldest, most superior look.

“ He’s earned it.” Aulë turned to Manwë, “He’s the best qualified for the position.  He commands the authority necessary, possesses the ability to motivate, and has the innate instinct to know which projects which will pay out.  And he won’t take any sh…guff…from subordinates.  The very same reasons I sought to promote him to Forge Master.”

“ He’s a known spy.  A traitor,” Námo grated, “ you cannot trust him.”

“ You wouldn’t let my lord promote him before, and look where it got us.” Yavanna challenged, “ You’re _ensuring_ history repeats itself.”

“ I absolutely forbid it.” Varda proclaimed.  She added, “ I’m surprised at you, Yavanna.  I’m very disappointed.”

 Nienna sighed, “ Majesty,”

“ We all know what you’re going to say,” Tulkas waved a dismissing hand, “spare us,”

Nienna turned indignant grey eyes on Tulkas.

“ Husband,” Nessa shot Nienna an apologetic glance, “ Please,”

“ She will advise just as she did last time: promote the Maia, give him authority, give him sympathy.  That will never happen.”

“ Perhaps not, but you needn’t be rude about it.” Irmo’s face appeared carved from stone, “ Or disrespectful of our sister.”

“ We would never consider pardoning Melkor, either, why let her waste her breath?”

“ Perhaps if Aulë had been permitted to do as he saw fit, in his own Halls, we would have known a very different outcome.” Nienna retorted, “ I ask you all, has it been easier since Melkor suborned Mairon?  Or has it grown harder to defeat our eldest brother which each successive Cycle?  Permitting Mairon actual authority—which we have continually denied him—could have tipped the balance in our favor from the outset.”

“ He told Melkor where the lamps were weak!” Orome protested, “ He’s directly responsible for their destruction.”

“ Perhaps he wouldn’t have if he’d been Forge Master instead of one of many smiths.” Yavanna retorted.

“ Or if we’d built his design instead of my own,” Aulë admitted heavily, “ his pride would not have seen them destroyed so easily.”

Another general clamor.

“ It was a better design!” Aulë raised his voice, “ His was better in matters of strength.  I should have used it rather than my own.”

Everyone fell silent and looked ‘round at Aulë in shock.  They’d never heard this from him before.  Not in any Cycle past.

“ I saw aspects of Melkor’s style in the forging, his methods in the steel smelting, and I refuted it.” The Great Smith’s shoulders sank.  He bowed his head.  “ For its inspiration, I cast the design aside.”

“ It’s too late.” Námo spoke into the silence after this admission.  “ The Maia’s fundamental resonance is altered.  When Melkor calls, he will answer.”

“ We can try,” Nienna turned to her elder brother, “ We can,”

But Námo shook his head, “ He rings with discord.”

“ There is that…unfortunate…rumor,” Irmo murmured, “ to which I gave no credence until Mairon refused to return for Judgment.”

Nienna folded the edges of her cardigan tighter around her.

Varda’s upper lip curled, “ If you refer to the suspicion that our brother instigated some…conjugation…with that Maia, I refuse to believe it.  What need has a Vala with such a nexus?”

“ Melkor loves nothing but himself,” Tulkas agreed, “ I, too, will not credit the whispers of  filthy Umaiar.”

“ It’s against our Nature, to seek that level of consummation with a lesser being.” Orome agreed.  “ Maiar may play with one another, in imitation of it, but even they know it is nothing.”

Salmar’s face darkened where he sat just outside their circle.

“ If anything, it is lust.  Base lust.” Vána nodded.  “ Nothing true, or meaningful.”

Vairë gave Nienna a sympathetic look, “ I concur.  Melkor has no heart to give.”

Manwë could not stifle a small, pained noise.

“ Forgive me, Majesty,” Vairë bowed in her seat and avoided his eye, “ But from all evidence, he has again wantonly discarded any true emotion but rage, fear, and lust for domination.”

“ We must not indulge in conjugations of flesh.” Nessa whispered, “ What use have we for it?”

“ Our love cannot be reserved for personal satisfaction.  It's meant for wider, better application.” Estë nodded, “ The governance of our Domains and the distribution of our Gifts to all Eä and to Arda.”

“ Balances and Children alike.” Vána nodded.

“ Bestowing trust on Mairon would be a mistake.” Orome muttered, “ Especially if he remains deluded enough to believe Melkor feels anything true.”

“ I agree.” Nessa.

“ I certainly agree.” Tulkas.

“ I must agree.” Vairë.

“ It cannot be.” Irmo, with another sad look to Nienna.

“ He is doomed time and again to play Melkor’s fool,” Námo added, though his voice lost its harsh edge, and he reached out for Nienna’s hand.

“ I don’t agree.” Yavanna.

“ I would take the risk.” Aulë looked so mournful, “ I would give him another chance.”

“ I, too, would give him another chance.”  Nienna gave Námo’s fingers a gentle pressure before she withdrew her own.

“ My lord bids ‘No quarter to the traitor.  Now or ever.’  He remains adamant.” Salmar spoke in a quiet, distant voice.

“ No.” Vána.

Estë shook her head.

“ My opinion will never waiver.” Varda shifted in her seat, “ My Lord King?”

“ We stand three to ten.” Manwë fell silent.  He looked to each face in turn.  Then he closed his eyes.  His head bowed.  Expression more pained than before, he sat for many long moments.  Finally, he looked up.  His face became serene.

“ No, the Maia Mairon may hold no position of authority or trust.  The majority speaks against it and against it, I now judge.  Aulë, you must choose another.”

“ Who, Curumo?” Aulë’s voice carried a weight of sarcasm.

“ You must seek outside your halls for a mortal capable of assuming the position.” Manwë pronounced.

“ This is the wrong decision.” Yavanna tried to appeal, “ Let us think aga—”

“ What is decided is decided.” Varda declared.  “This Witan is closed.”

“ The children are waiting,” Vairë stood, “Let them have their fireworks and their gift bags and board the buses before it gets too late.”

“ Fireworks would not exist if Mairon hadn’t discovered potassium nitrate,” Aulë growled under his breath.

“ Enough!” Varda snapped, “ It is of no moment and shall be mentioned never again.” She rose, tall, imperious, and coldly beautiful, “ Olórin is our master of ceremonies and you will not degrade his art by mentioning that name.  And when the viper in your nest bites your heart one more time, I will refrain from saying I told you it would.”  She looked down on Manwë, “ Shall we go home, my love?”

“ After the show,” he surprised her, “ I promised Eónwë and Ilmarë we would stay.  And that they could spend the night in our Hall.”

That pleased her, the idea of throwing her Handmaid and his Herald together in what had always been their natural pairing, and her cold expression lessened.  She smiled at him, just a little, and nodded.

“ How wise you are, my husband,” quietly before she left the library.

The others departed in little groups.  Except for Salmar, who slipped out alone and disappeared amid the early evening shadows.

Aulë and Yavanna lingered, making a point to wait for Nienna.

“ You tried, sister, and for that we thank you.” Yavanna linked her arm through Nienna’s.  The faded grey cardi looked white beside dark brown skin.  Yavanna's other hand, in a frustrated gesture, needlessly ran over the long, spiral curls—dyed a rich, apple green—that bounced down her neck.

“ And they think me a fool,” Aulë rumbled.  Standing between them, Nienna looked like a child.  Aulë leaned down and kissed her forehead.

“ They’re so eager to blame Melkor,” Nienna mourned, “ They’ll never see it.  They could never admit that it’s their judgment that drives Mairon away.”

“ I’m beginning to think it’s Ordained.” Aulë grieved, “And there’s nothing we can do to stop this event from playing out Cycle after Cycle.”

Yavanna kept quiet, but she gave one slight nod.

Neinna heaved a deep sigh.  She had formed that opinion herself several repetitions ago, but Aulë must puzzle it out for himself.  Must accept it.

Mairon had never been meant for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, moving right along...


	22. The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Maiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Klaxon Noises - Violence Warning
> 
> Sunday afternoon.
> 
> Mairon returns from posting Lost Dog flyers to find that Faroula's been arranging things to her satisfaction.
> 
> Vole makes a grisly discovery in the basement. The Swarm realizes its Old Enemy lurks nearby. Rat bolsters their courage. 
> 
> Guess who assembles a table and gets an invitation dinner? Melkor, of course. He also eavesdrops on a private phone call and takes His resulting ire out on Rat. She placates Him and saves her skin with some quick thinking. (Klaxon warning applies to this incident.)
> 
> Mairon gets a third phone call and Kosomot does the right thing.
> 
> Legal drug use as an unhealthy coping mechanism gets Mairon through an uncomfortable meal.
> 
> Our clever Vermin arrange consolation and companionship for two broken hearts.

January 17, 2019

 

**_The Best Laid Plans of Mice and Maiar_ **

 

Mairon let himself into his kitchen and found that Faroula hadn’t waited.  She’d punched down the dough and was now forming it into two loaves.

“ Ah,” she looked up.  A streak of flour whitened one cheek. “ I take over, yes, you are gone too long.” 

“ Thank you, Umi,”

A low thump and a bump issued from the front parlor.

“ I invite Mr. Bell for dinner.”  Faroula wiped off the flour with the back of a hand.

Mairon closed the door behind him with extreme care.  Amber-brown eyes ablaze, he stared at his mother. “ You _what_?” he whispered.

“ I’m going to make some noise,” a deep voice called from the front room, “ this leaf has a warp and doesn’t want to sit flush,”

Mairon would know that voice anywhere.  Its rich velvet timbre grated over strung-out nerves.

“ He loans us a table and chairs,” Faroula responded, “ I invite him to eat.”

Mairon realized she did not mean the tea table and pair of chairs that already occupied his flat.

THUMP!

Mairon startled.

“ Get in there,” Bell, it seemed, spoke to the new table.

“ Umumi!”  Mairon hissed.

“ Go say thank you,” Faroula hissed back, “ I teach you manners, you use them,” as she scored the tops of the two loaves.

Mairon nearly vibrated with outrage.  He glared as she slipped the bread back into the proofing drawer.

“ Go.  Now.”  Faroula commanded as she straightened.  “ I make you tea.  You smoke more of your stinking weed and you calm down,” she slapped the kettle on a burner, “and you thank him.  He rolled that weed, Rhonee.”

Under that revelation, he reeled anew.

Thump!

“ Stay down, you wooden wretch,”

Mairon, body stiff as a flagpole, strode into his parlor.

 

Vole spotted the puddle of congealed blood clotted on the dirty basement floor.  Picking up a lump of torn skin backed with black and white fur, he sniffed the gory patch.

A long rust-coloured streak ran across the cement.  On either side of that smear, there were paw prints.

Vole fell on his hands and knees in the dust and sniffed those prints.  The fine hair on his nape stood upright.

“ Weaza?”  Snick’s little voice echoed in the basement.  “ Weeeeaza?”  She pattered around in another room.

Vole leapt to his feet.  This…this was bad.

He needed Rat.  Right now.

Those huge paw prints, Vole knew them from Ages past.

The Old Enemy.

Clutching the gruesome evidence, he ran so fast his toes barely touched the floor.  As he sped by Snick, his free fingers snagged her wrist.  He hauled her along behind him.

Up, up, up the stairs he flew.  Snick stumbled behind.  She slowed him down, but he would not let her go.  He literally dragged her up the last four steps into the Master’s quarters.

Slamming the basement door with a soft bang, Vole reached up and locked it behind them.

“ CH!  CH!  CH!”

The Swarm recognized the threat alarm and filled Melkor’s kitchen until not a patch of linoleum floor remained unoccupied.

Rat emerged, in a curling stream of thin, black smoke, from the closest air duct.  She assumed flesh so fast the air rang with a tiny crack of thunder.

She glowered at him.

He held out the bloody scrap of skin and fur.

Snick recognized it.  She wailed, “ Weaza!” And snatched it from his hand.

Rat hissed.

“ Tevildo!”  Vole rasped.

The Swarm let go a low, keening moan and drew into a tight cluster.  They cast anxious, panicked glances around Melkor’s kitchen as if the Prince of Cats might appear at any moment.

Snick clutched the fur to her chest, “ Weaza,”

Rat approached Snick and sniffed at the fur, and the globs of congealed blood staining little grey hands and pewter-coloured claws.  Rat backed off a step and nodded.

Chitter-click, she confirmed, it was, indeed, Tevildo’s work.

The big bastard.

He never would abide by Mairon’s edict that Umaiar should not prey upon other Umaiar.  And ever had he loathed their master and been cruelly jealous of how Melkor Favored the Lieutenant.

The Swarm gathered around Rat, seeking guidance, while Snick sank to the floor and curled around what remained of Weasel.  Vole folded onto his knees and pulled Snick’s head into his lap.

Rat, with a chitter and hiss, instructed her siblings to stay in groups of two or more and carry arms wherever they might roam.  She broke from their ranks and, climbing the kitchen cabinets, kicked open Melkor’s silverware drawer.  A little hand snatched up a long, two-pronged meat fork.  Brandishing it, Rat skreed in defiance.

The Swarm rallied.  Their courage lifted.

Rat tossed the fork into their midst and a paw snatched it from the air.  Then, opening the tool drawer, she handed out wrenches and screwdrivers.

 

Mairon, his face a study in impassive distance, stared at a beautiful dining room set without appreciation for its glossy, polished wood.  Despite all wishes to the contrary, he could not stop a zing of admiration when his eyes moved to Bell’s tall, muscular body.

And, again, he wished his landlord wasn’t so…fucking…gorgeous.

“ Give that end a shove,” Bell barely looked up.

Without a word, Mairon did as he was bid.

One huge hand pressed down on the leaf Bell had fitted into the table.  A long, sinewy, powerful hand…  Mairon’s throat worked with a compulsive swallow.  Damn, that thing could cover an entire dinner plate.

Or trap a pair of wrists with ease…

Mairon shut his eyes and pushed on his end of the table.  His lids snapped up with he heard another dull thump.

Bell held a rubber mallet.

The big man said, “ One more, Dr. Smith,”

Mairon pushed again.

The piece dovetailed into one unit.

“ There you go.”  Bell gave him a satisfied grin.

The bottom of Mairon’s stomach plunged.  And his irritation soared.

“ Thanks for the loan,” in a chilly voice.

Bell either didn’t catch Mairon’s tone or chose to ignore it.  “ You’re welcome.”

Faroula appeared in the open arch that led to the kitchen.  “ Ah, very good!  It needs to go left.”  She gestured with both hands that they should pick up the table and move it under the light fixture that hung from the ceiling and defined the dining space.

“ Yes, Umi,” Mairon grabbed his end.  He shot his mother a narrow glare.

Her black eyes flared right back at him.

Bell laid his mallet on the dark walnut wood and grabbed the other side of the table.

Together they shifted it into its proper spot.

Faroula nodded and, giving Mairon a wide smile, said, “ Mr. Bell is very kind, Rhonee, no,” before she disappeared back into the kitchen.

“  Very kind.  Thank you again,” Mairon muttered, not even trying to sound grateful.

Bell picked up the mallet.  He gave a short laugh as if fully aware of the undercurrent between mother and son.  He came around to stand at Mairon’s side.  Just a little too close.

“ She’s a pip,” Bell murmured, “ and she makes a mean pudding.”

Mairon drew a sharp breath.  His rice pudding!  The very first bowl of his rice pudding had gone to this big, arrogant son of a…

“ So, you need anything other than a picnic table or a staple gun,” Bell’s voice dropped into velvet innuendo, “ like a…huge hammer,”

Mairon felt colour flood his cheeks.

“ You let me know,”  Bell purred.

Dark blue eyes bore into his.

“ I’ll happily give you one,”

Mairon couldn’t breathe.

“ Anytime you need it.”

They stood face to face for long, silent moments.

Bell’s eyes locked on Mairon’s face, lingering on his speechless lips until they parted.

When the tip of his tongue came out, just a bit, to moisten dry flesh, Bell made a faint, growling, _hungry_ noise.

Mairon’s whole body reacted.  A thrill of desire lifted the fine hair on his arms and nape.  Answering hunger flooded his stomach and tingled in his balls.

“ You are…”  Bell breathed.

“ I made tea.” Faroula’s voice shattered the moment.  “ Who wants tea?”

Mairon almost jumped out of his skin.  He jerked back a step.  His unruly brain screamed, _What?  What am I?_

 _Stupid,_ answered his common sense, _horny and stupid._

Bell, in a sardonic gesture, saluted Mairon with his rubber mallet.  Tucking it under his arm, he prowled for the kitchen.

“ Not my cup of tea,” he joked to Faroula, “ I’m a coffee man.”

Mairon absorbed that fact and had a stray, unwanted, thought about buying a percolator and some filters to keep on hand…  He shoved the notion away so hard that his temples throbbed.

“ We eat at five, yes?  You will stay?”

“ I’ve got to call my estate agent,”

 _That_ was an unpleasant reminder: Bell wasn’t free to make these blatant innuendos.  He was screwing Harry Lang.

Mairon’s whole head pounded, mostly in frustrated desire.  He scowled at the dining table and slung its six chairs into position with small thuds.

“ You come back then.”

“ I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”  Bell told Faroula before he called, “ See you soon…Mairon.”

He moved into the arched opening between kitchen and parlor, “ I thought we’d eat outside,” and spare himself Bell’s close physical proximity, “ on your picnic table.  Kosomot and I hauled it out before we posted a couple dozen Lost Dog flyers.”

“ It’s going to rain.”  Bell stood in the open kitchen door.  His free hand rested on the knob.

Damn, he did have such wonderful hands…long, strong, dexterous…powerful.

Mairon had noticed a few clouds while he and Kosomot walked Little Miss but the sky had been predominantly blue.  “ It was clear fifteen minutes ago,” he contradicted.

“ It’s going to rain all night.”  Bell sounded so damn sure.  “ I look forward to another bowl of your rice pudding,” he flirted with Faroula, giving her a warm curve of his perfect lips, “ for dessert.”

She beamed at him.

“ A nice big bowl.”  His mother promised.

“ Later, then.”  Bell closed the door.

“ Tea, Rhonee?”

“ I know what you’re doing,” Mairon pointed at her, “ and you can damned well stop this instant, Umumi.”  He turned around, “ Call me when the bread’s risen.”

He’d put new bed sheets in the dryer before starting the bread.  He pulled and sorted them: two sets of double-sized sheets for his beds and a set of single-sized sheets for Kosomot’s bed.  He folded the singles and put them aside.  First, he dressed the bed Faroula was using, and then his own.

He fumed as he worked.  After he finished, both beds were so tight they’d bounce a coin high enough to hit the ceiling.

Mairon paused in his bathroom to pull another joint out of his bag of weed.  The knowledge that Mr. Bell had rolled them re-ignited his irritation anew.

In the kitchen, Faroula had plates and silverware on the island.

“ We haven’t got a cloth for it, we can’t eat on that table.”  Mairon snipped at her.

She gave him a sardonic glance, “ We use tea towels.  For placemats and for trivets.”

“ We eat outside,” and, as he spoke, light rain pattered on the kitchen windows.

She looked at the little spatters and turned a deadpan face back to him.  “Tea towels.”

He growled and, pulling a stack of new towels from a drawer, laid the table.

Just as he finished, his phone rang.  A fresh wave of raw irritation ripped over him when he saw the caller’s name.

Swiping the screen, Mairon slipped out his front doors onto the interior landing.

“ Am I going to see you next Sunday?”  Marcus asked without preliminaries.

“ No.  You are not.”  He lifted the mic away from his face to take a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm himself.  “ I haven’t changed my mind.  We’re done.  Feel free to reschedule my time slot.”

“ Mairon,”

Mairon cut Marcus off, “ Kallie called me today.”

“ Mairon,”

He interjected again, refusing to let the other man speak, “ I’ll bring your final check to the Munch.”

“ Had any luck online?”  Marcus ripped out the question before Mairon could interrupt a third time.

“ I’ve been busy.”

“ Then come to me next weekend.  I have a new toy.  A leather flogger.  I ordered it with you in mind.”

“ Not my concern.  Test it out on some other sub’s ass.”

“ You sound stressed.”

Mairon bit back a very rude response.

“ Riding crop stressed.  Why don’t you reconsider—”

“ Marcus, I’m hanging up.  I have company coming for dinner.”

The Dom paused.  “ That’s…uncharacteristically social,”

“ Hanging up.  Now.”  He pulled the phone away from his ear.

“ Mairon,”

He hit the disconnect button.

“ Fuck you, Marcus,” under his breath.

 

On the landing above, Melkor stood motionless and silent.  He held a heavy armchair.

It was a painstaking reproduction of Mairon’s favorite chair; the one from which he read and wrote reports, justified his ledgers, and transcribed spells into his dark and sorcerous grimoires.

For more than three decades, Melkor had carried it from house to house while He searched for his Maia’s current incarnation.

The Dark Vala set down the heavy piece.  He stalked into His flat.  Sulfurous smoke rolled off broad shoulders.  Turning to frozen rime, it left flecks of ice on every surface He passed.

Humanoid fana a shattering illusion, Melkor’s rage constructed a form terrible to behold.  Coils of black, serpentine hair writhed and twisted around Him.  Obsidian flesh streaked with pulsing blue veins.  Eyes of fire and ice above a mouth full of protruding fangs, His visage radiated jealous fury.

The Swarm squealed and hid.

Melkor held out a hand and splayed twenty ferocious, crystalline talons.

“ Come here, thou little bitch,” power thundered through the sibilant hiss.

An Umaia’s spirit ripped through floors and walls, solid matter no barrier, in answer to the summons.  Rat’s molecules smashed back together at the Master’s command.

Melkor enclosed her in a deadly grip.  He flung her against the parlor wall.  She bounced, and He caught her.  Giving her a head-wrenching shake, He slammed her to the floor before Him.

One massive foot crushed down on her chest.

Vole, with Snick not far behind, ran from the hallway.  He stopped dead in his tracks.  Lips open in soundless horror, Vole tore at his unkempt hair.

Rat screamed.  Thin and shrill, the noise vibrated the very walls around them.

“ Little fool!” Melkor raged, “ Dar’st thou hide from Me and think I know not?”

He pressed her so hard against the floorboards that her shriek became a thready keen.  It gurgled down into silence.

“ What knowest thou, wretched gremlin?”

For a moment, He let up.  Rat sucked in an agonized breath.  She mewled.

Snick whimpered in unison.  Vole whipped around and clamped his palm over her grey lips.  Black eyes huge and frantic, he pulled her back down the hallway.  Drawing Melkor’s attention at this moment would be a terrible, a horrendous, mistake.

Rat’s quavering mewls turned to a short burble when Melkor ground her under his heel.

“ What knowest thou?”  The Vala demanded, “ What dost thou conceal upon thy master’s behalf?  Tell Me!  Or I shall smear thine essence from one end of Arda to the other, never again to cohere.”

The Master kicked her into the wall.  As she tried to push up on shaking arms, Melkor pounced on her where she lay.  Grabbing her head, He pulled her up to face Him.

“ Who is ‘Marcus’?” Melkor demanded and His breath in her face was an arctic blast.  Ice formed on her eyelashes and eyebrows.

Rat wailed that she didn’t know who or what a ‘Marcus’ was.

“ It doth recognize signs of stress in _My_ Thú.  It knowest his need for a flogger or a crop against flesh to quiet his mind.  To heighten his peak and bring forth voluble ecstasy until he doth surrender to perfect bliss,”

Melkor squeezed her head until it threatened to pop, much as Langon’s had that day in the kitchen.

Rat squealed and, writhing like a mad thing, let pulses of information flow along the invisible threads that linked the Maia to her Vala.

Lord Mairon had a thing, a magical mirror, that showed pictures and reports and he wrote letters on it.  Human males sent him images of their tiny little sex organs, and he had been angry about it.  Had scorned those images…

Melkor eased the pressure of His huge, clawed hand.  Now, he ripped into her mind, sucking her knowledge into Himself in an inexorable and burning stream.

Rat wailed and warbled as the Master flayed open her thoughts and examined the depths of her mind.

Memories of cock shots, offers for a beating, or restraint, or humiliation, proffered ownership, demanded submission, all of it came pouring out.

Melkor growled and rumbled as he absorbed the information.  When He had all that interested Him, He cast Rat back to the floor at His feet.

Down the end of the long hallway, Vole pressed Snick to the walnut wainscoting, indicating she should stay where she was—out of Melkor’s sight.  Wild with shuddering fear, she clamped both little hands across her face.   Snick nodded.  Then silver eyes widened in panic when Vole darted toward the parlor.  She grabbed after him, but he was too fast.

Vole flew into the parlor and, to Rat’s dismay, threw himself to the floor at her side.  Aghast, he took in red-gold blood trickling from her nose, her mouth, and down her throat from both ears.  Streaming from the lacerations, made by Melkor’s twenty talons, across her torso and limbs.

Melkor noticed not.  He stood tall and terrible, pondering the knowledge he’d taken from Rat’s mind, and paid no heed.

Rat, rasping in agony, lifted on a trembling arm.  She tried to pull Vole under her.  Too weak and unsteady, she heaved herself up and, smearing his back with her blood, covered him.

Above them, Melkor processed.  Utterly focused, He did not realize He shrank back into the humanoid fana He wore to walk among modern mortals.  Pulsing blue veins became faint pink lines.  Obsidian flesh paled to normal tones.  His hands lost their long black talons and extra fingers.

Lips twisted in a grimace, He gestured as if flicking aside concepts.

Vole, beneath Rat, crooned comfort and slipped a hand over hers.

“ So,” Melkor rumbled, “ No obvious signs of a lover?” He reached down.  The Vermin cringed.  Melkor grabbed first Rat, then Vole, by their threadbare clothes.  He hauled both high to face Him.  “ No whispered conversations?  No passionate notes?   No portrait in his bedchamber or miniature upon his person?”

Rat, with several broken ribs, found it impossible to talk.  She gave a violent shake of her head and ignored the resultant wave of lancing agony.

“ NO!” Vole hissed, “ No, no, no,”

“ But he sought seclusion to converse with this mortal,”  Melkor tucked the Vermin to His chest, holding them with one arm.  Oblivious to Rat’s shallow gasp and shudder of pain, He carried them into the kitchen.  “ Though he cursed the name when he ended the call,”

Rat, busily scouring her memories, finally recalled a single message that seemed pertinent to the Master’s interrogation.  She gave a breathless, rasping cheep.

Melkor nodded thoughtfully as He grabbed a bottle of expensive wine from one cupboard.  Spilling the Vermin onto a counter, He pulled the cork.

“ Spurned, spurned,” Vole agreed with Rat, “ Spurned and cursed,”

Melkor sniffed the wine and put it aside to air.

Rat, with Vole’s help, sat up and, gasping in a breath that made her feel as if knives plunged in her chest, warbled that the lieutenant had been very angry with the suitors who offered only images of their bodies.  Written, “ NOT LOOKING FOR SEX,” in the biggest letters he could.  Lord Mairon, she whimpered, did not seek a lover.  He sought a Master…  She pointed at Vala.

Vole, frantic, nodded.

Despite the pain racking through her, and the blood drenching her clothes, Rat lifted both shaking hands, in awed adoration, to their Lord.  She cheeped.

“ You,” Vole echoed, “ Seekest You, Majesty, You!”

Melkor, finally mollified, nodded.  “ Of course he seekest  Me.  He is Mine.  He hath always been.  Always shall be.  He simply remembers not.”  A faint smile curved the Vala’s face, “ And he is a stubborn little bitch.”

“Ah, he _will_ make Me dance a pretty step,” on a short laugh.

Two huge hands reached out to engulf Rat’s body.  Vole cringed and stifled a cry.

Melkor’s energy crackled through long fingers.  With a terrible moan, Rat convulsed.  The blood dribbling from her nose and mouth stopped flowing.  Ribs popped back into their proper place.  Internal organs assumed rightful shapes and functions.

 A brutal healing, it was.

Melkor, who possessed all the abilities of His siblings, did not practice some of those gifts often enough for skill.  Crafting, hunting, prophecy, air currents, and dreams, these He carried off with great flair, but healing… quite frankly, He cared less if it were tender or gentle. 

He was, however, very thorough.

After the great bolt of pain, Rat breathed well and deeply.  The ringing in her ears stopped.  Cracked fangs sank themselves back into her gums as if they’d never shattered.

The Master ran a fingertip along the thin trail of blood on Rat’s chin.  Raising that finger to His mouth, He licked the red-gold smear.

“ We sup tonight, he and I, and he is not best pleased with it.”  Melkor lifted first Rat, then Vole, down onto the floor.  He inhaled, “ Hmm, smell that?  Fresh bread to break upon mine own board.” He gave the top of Rat’s head a light slap, “ Clean thyself up and keep thy Siblings quiet.

Rat bobbed her awkward squat of a curtsey.  Vole gave his funny little bow.

Melkor looked at the clock on the microwave.  “ Shower or no?  Change or no?  Hmmm, yes to both.” He looked at the cup of cold coffee, sitting next to the cold plate of food, on the counter.  “ Make a fresh pot and bring it me when the shower stops.”

Rat, swiping her sleeve over the blood on her face, curtsied again.

The Master, with a pleased hum, pulled His dark blue, knitted jumper over His head and departed the kitchen.

A moment later, Snick, both hands still clamped over her mouth, darted into the room.  Large silver eyes took in the Vermin.  She flew to them and, grabbing each around the throat, hauled them against her.

Rat shot Vole a look over Snick’s bent head.  Vole gave a faint nod.  They were going to have to do something about this one.  She was far too soft-hearted to thrive in Melkor’s Household.

Rat extracted herself from Snick’s death-grip.  As the Swarm emerged from hiding, Rat climbed back onto the counter.  Taking up the dish sponge, she wiped up her own blood.  Then she dumped both the mug and the carafe of old coffee down the sink.  She cheeped at her companion.

Vole, less quick to shake off Snick, nodded.  He clicked.

“ Coffa!” Snick nodded emphatically.

“ Cof-FEE,” Vole corrected again.

“ Coffa?”

Vole sighed.

The Swarm pulled out their penny stashes and sat down to a game of roll-bones.

Vole climbed onto the counter and pulled Snick up behind him.  Together, they began a fresh pot while Rat, after providing them with water, washed out the sink. 

Rat dropped to the floor.  As Vole and Snick measured ground coffee into the percolator, she took her sponge to the trail of red-gold blood drops all the way back into the parlor.

And also took note that the Swarm left _her_ blood untouched.

 

Mairon, uncaring of the light rain, stood outside his kitchen door.  Sucking at the joint in his fingers as fast as he could, he paced the narrow landing.  Whispering under his breath, he grumbled about his mother, cursed both his landlord and Marcus Tennant, and exhaled plumes of rank, spicy smoke.

“ She wants grandchildren, she better start matchmaking for Khadi.  I’m not doing it.  I can’t believe he made a fucking hammer innuendo, ‘a huge hammer’…I bet he’s hung like a mouse… cut the brake lines of Marcus’ fucking BMW…shove his new flogger so far up his ass it comes out his mouth…she gave him my rice pudding, _my_ rice pudding…”

As he fumed, an unfamiliar local number rang his phone.  They left a voicemail but Mairon didn’t check it until he pinched out the joint.

"Shit," listening to the message, “that was fast.”  Mairon shot an unhappy look at the carriage house windows. “Oh, shit.”

Faroula opened the kitchen door.  She poked her head out, “ Done, yes?”

When she saw the look on his face, she fell silent.  Stepping into the long, thin raindrops, Faroula mouthed, “ What?”

“ It’s just a voicemail,” Mairon told her.  He lowered the phone and saved the message.

“ What is wrong, my little falcon?”

“ Someone saw the flyer and called about the dog.”

“ Oh, no!”

“ We couldn’t keep her.  I suppose it’s for the best, really, but…”

“ Poor Kosomot!”

“ He’s become so fond of her.  I don’t know if I should tell him now or wait until after we eat.  It might be best if we just…get it over with.”

“ Like ripping off a sticking plaster.” Faroula nodded.

“ It’ll break his giant heart.” Mairon mourned.  “ What do you think, Umi?”

“ You go now.  Be kind.  I take out the bread and make salad.”

“ Thank you, Umi.”  Mairon handed her the remains of his joint.

“ The kitchen stinks of burnt weed, I turn on the fan.” She told him as she took it.

“ Good.  There are candles in the box in my bathroom.  Will you get them out and light them?”

She nodded.  “ Be kind.  Very kind,” she murmured, “ Remember when we lost Newt, and be gentle,” because Faroula knew Mairon found empathy a challenge. 

Mairon, all irritation and anger fled, gave a little nod.  “ I still miss Newt.  She was a good dog.”

Newt’s death, at the ripe age of fifteen, had been the only time she’d seen the boy cry.

Faroula went back inside.  Mairon thumped slowly down the stairs.

Once inside the carriage house, Mairon looked at the flat door.  It wasn’t fully closed.

Feet leaden, he dragged himself up the stairs and called, “ Kosomot?  Are you here?”

Little Miss pawed the door open and greeted him with a toothy grin and wagging tail.

“ Hello, sweetie.” Mairon rubbed her head.  Her fur was damp. “ Kosomot?”

The big man, his shocking red hair dark and spikey, appeared with a towel in his hand.

“ Ah, Mairon, well met.  We just walked down the other side of the hill.  I thought it best to feed her early and take her out before we ate.”  He’d obviously had time to change because his clothes were dry despite his wet head.  “ Come back, Little Miss.” He opened the towel with both hands.

The dog went to him and tolerated the towel.

Mairon heaved a sigh.  He propped a shoulder against the doorframe.  “ I…just got a phone call.”

“ Yes?”

“ About her.”

“ So soon?  You said it might take time,” Kosomot stopped rubbing damp fur.

“ Seems she belongs to a family just outside the village.  The Tilby’s of Whotknot Farm.  The thunderstorm scared her and she jumped a sheep gate.  They’re relieved to know she’s safe…excited to get her back.”  Mairon bit his lower lip, “They brought their kids to the park today, to post their own flyers, and saw ours.”

Kosomot just knelt on the floor, staring at him.

“ I’m sorry.” Mairon couldn’t bear the big man’s eyes.  He shifted his gaze to the floor.  If only he could tell Kosomot fuck their landlord, and fuck the farm family, keep the dog.  But, he thought, if his rental contract said no pets then surely Kosomot’s did, too. 

A heavy sigh drew Mairon’s attention back to Kosomot’s face.  Hugging Little Miss’s damp shoulders, the strange redhead murmured, “ A farm is a big place with room to run.  She likes to run.”

“ Much bigger than our garden.” Mairon agreed.  “ I have to head into work tomorrow, I’ve been gone a week, but I only intend a half day.  Umi still needs to find a car.  We could leave this until tomorrow afternoon,”

“ No,” Kosomot rose to his feet, “ Let us contact these people, these Tilby’s of Whotknot Farm.  Let us see what they wish to do.”

Mairon had few doubts about what a young farm family would want.

Consequently, they packed Little Miss’s toys, bowls, and unused food into plastic bags and carried everything downstairs.  Mairon, when cottonmouth got the better of him, ran back up to Kosomot’s kitchen to suck some tap water out of his cupped palm.

They stood just inside the open carriage house, watching the raindrops, and less than twenty minutes later a beat up Land Rover pulled down the drive.

When a young man slid out behind the wheel, with a grin and a whistle, Little Miss let out a high-pitched yowl and launched herself across the wet pavement.

“ Sadie!” Children’s voices hollered from the Rover, “ Sadie, Daddy, Sadie, Sadie, Sadie!”  Two little faces pressed to a back window.

The dog, Sadie it seemed, leapt into the young man’s arms.  He hugged her to his chest.

As the children clamored, their father buried his face in the dog’s neck.

“ Thar’s me girl, thar’s me good, old girl,”

Mairon curved a comforting arm around Kosomot’s broad back.  There was no doubt Sadie came from a family that loved her and had missed her very much.

A sturdy, fair-haired woman emerged from the passenger door.  “ Thank you, we were so worried about her,” She spoke in a city accent while her husband’s was all country.

The two children cried even louder when their father opened a back door.  They leaned out to hug Sadie before he tucked the dog between them.

“ We can’t thank you enough for taking care of her,” the blond woman gushed.  She reached out to touch first Kosomot’s hand then Mairon’s arm.

“ Aye, aye, she’s in fine fettle,” the young man agreed as he joined his wife, “Thank’ee, thank’ee,”

“ My friend found her wandering the streets Friday night,” Mairon explained. Kosomot seemed too choked up to speak.  “ She’s a lovely, friendly dog and he’s enjoyed taking care of her.”

Kosomot dragged himself together enough to shake the farmer’s hand and agree Sadie was a fine girl.  A very sweet dog.

Mairon helped them load the toys, food, and dishes in the Rover’s back hatch.  He gave the kids, a pair of little fair-haired imps with round faces and ruddy cheeks, a half smile as they thanked him over the rear seat.  When he reached in to give the dog’s head a parting stroke, she licked his fingers.

“ Kos, come and say goodbye.” Mairon waved the big man over.

The children stared at him in awe.  “ You’re huge, Mister, you’re a giant!”

“ He’s Gogmagog’s brother,” Mairon told them.

The woman laughed and, when her husband shot her a look, murmured she’d explain later.  “ It’s an old folk story,” Her impressed eyes shared Mairon’s joke.

The dog hooked her paws over the seat and pushed forward to lick both of Kosomot’s arms when she couldn’t reach his face.  He leaned into the Rover and let her give him a long lap, chin-to-hairline.

“ You be good,” Kosomot said in a thick voice.  He rubbed her head and fondled her ears, “ Be true and brave,”

They watched the Rover back down the drive and turn out onto the main street.  Without a word, Mairon laid his hand on Kosomot’s shoulder.  They stood side by side, silent, in the wet, chilly gloaming.

“ Foolish boys,” Faroula’s scolding voice drew them out of their individual reveries sometime later, “ You are soaking.  Come up and come in.”  She leaned out the kitchen door.

“ Go grab a change of clothes and come across.  I’ll open a ginger beer for you.” Mairon said.  “ Dinner should be nearly ready.”

Kosomot plodded into the carriage house.  Mairon climbed the stairs and Faroula closed the door behind him.  She’d found the candles and box of wooden, strike-top matches he’d packed with them.  They were for his bathroom, and each had its own heatproof glass holder.

The smell of bayberries and vanilla competed with sweet, slow-cooked pork and fresh bread.

Mairon picked up the largest roach from the tea saucer on the island-top.  Lighting it from the vanilla candle, he met Faroula’s scolding look.  “ It’s a horrible evening.”

“ You will fall asleep at the table,”

“ With any luck.”  The teapot was hot, and he poured himself a mug of chamomile before grabbing two bottles of ginger beer out of the fridge.  When he offered her the joint, his mother came around and took a delicate sip.

She coughed.  Waving a hand at the trail of blue smoke that lifted off the roach, she muttered about weed tea being more civilized.

He stubbed out the roach on the saucer and moved to get the pork loin out of the Crockpot.  “ Did you dress the salad?”

“ When they arrive.”

“ I’m going to change while this meat rests.”  He knocked on one loaf of bread as he passed the cooling pair on their metal rack.  “ Get out the butter to warm.”

“ Done,” she waved him from the room.

When he returned, in a knit pullover top and his favorite bronze-brown cardigan, Kosomot had arrived and claimed his ginger beer.  He’d almost finished the first.

“ We sit when our last guest arrives,” Faroula tossed a green salad with simple a lemon, oil, and vinegar dressing, “ he brings wine.”

“ All right, Kos?” Mairon asked.  He poured hot water from the kettle into his only decent serving dish.

Kosomot nodded.

Which meant not all right.  Mairon pulled another joint from his cardi pocket and lit it from the bayberry candle.  After it was going well, he handed it to Kosomot and murmured, “ It’s good shit.  Bring your appetite back and give you some distance.”

Kosomot took it with a little confusion.  The scent was vaguely familiar, from Ages past, but he’d only known the intoxication of Melkor’s divine aura. 

Mairon, however, had collected an extensive pharmacopeia from which he concocted elixirs, poultices, philters, tinctures, salves, and the like.

How Melkor bitched when the lieutenant overindulged in poppy or mushrooms decoctions and disappeared into Angband’s vast library.  Once, for nearly a year.

Mairon had designed several cunning new catapults and siege engines, and concocted a salve that actually relieved the pain in the Master’s burnt hands, during that time.

He’d also traced incomprehensible schematics on the library walls.  At some point losing both chalk and charcoal, he’d used blood from his fingertips; burning equations deep into the stone.

Kosomot tried the pungent smoke.  The moment it hit mortal lungs, he coughed his brains out.

“ See, tea!” Faroula scowled at Mairon.

“ You have to teach me how to make it,” he snipped back.  Cutting into one of the bread loaves, he twitched around when a cursory knock sounded on the kitchen door.  Bell, with a wine bottle in one hand, let himself in.

Oddly, Kosomot put down his second ginger beer and seemed to straighten to attention.

“ Sir,” he rumbled, with a formal dip of his head.

Mairon, bread knife hovering over the next slice, watched their exchange.

“ Captain,” Bell lifted his chin to Kosomot.

 _Ah,_ Mairon thought, _ah, yes, I see._   Then he congratulated himself for his powers of observation and deduction.  He’d thought Kosomot was ex-military.  And when he shot a surreptitious look at Bell, he realized the flush of attraction he experienced every time they met clouded his sight.  Bell, too, had a military bearing.

“ We have found the dog’s people, Sir,” Kosomot reported, “ and they have claimed her,” as if they were still in Service.

“ Very good, Captain.”  Bell nodded.  He did not seem to realize how low this development had brought Kosomot for he turned to Faroula and lifted the bottle of wine.  “ A rosé, Professor, which should do well enough with pork in a pinch.”  Dark-dark blue eyes turned to Mairon, “ Good evening.  The food smells wonderful.  Despite the weed.”

And, _damn it_ , Mairon blushed.

“ Ah!” Faroula accepted the bottle, “ I find something.  Rhonee does not drink so we have no wine glasses.”  She searched his meager supply of glassware and came down with four mismatched water tumblers.

Mairon finished slicing the bread and then turned his attention to the pork loin.

“ Rhonee, wine?”

“ Just a taste,” He murmured over his shoulder.  Cheeks still unbearably hot, he listened as Faroula and Bell carried on a cheerful conversation.

Mairon dumped the hot water from the serving platter and arranged potatoes, onions, and mushrooms, which they’d added over the afternoon.  The pork cut like warm butter, practically splitting before his knife touched it.  Mairon fanned the slices out in the center of the veggies.  Then he spooned gravy over the top.

When he turned, platter in hand, Faroula had offered Bell the joint and he held it in one hand and wine in the other.  Looking very fucking comfortable in Mairon’s kitchen.

Kosomot hovered off the one side, trying not to look sad.  When Faroula directed a comment or question his way, Kosomot’s response was polite but short.

Mairon sighed.  “ Dinner.  Shall we go through?”

Bell, Mairon noticed he hadn’t coughed once, put the joint out in the saucer and told Kosomot, “ Bring the bread for the lady,”  Bell brought the wine.

“ Yes, Sir,”  Faroula gave him a sympathetic look as she handed him the towel-covered plate of bread.

The meal was a strange affair.  Sitting at an expensive antique table spread with multi-patterned tea towels: Kosomot and Mairon ate in near silence while Bell and Faroula talked up a storm.

Mairon drank his two mouthfuls of rosé, Kosomot had a third ginger beer, and Faroula and Bell polished off the wine.

The big, black-haired bugger flirted with his mother as if they’d known each other for years.  Faroula beamed under Bell’s oh-so-charming attention even before the alcohol kicked in.

“ I rarely get a home-cooked meal,” Bell tried to flirt with Mairon, much to Faroula’s delight.  “ This is quite the treat.  The bread, especially.”

“ Perhaps you should hire a housekeeper,” that earned him his mother’s quick frown.  Under the table, Faroula rapped his ankle with her toes.

Mairon ignored her, “ More pork, Kos?”

“ A little, it’s very good,”

“ More salad?”

“ No thank you, Mairon.”

“ Have another piece of bread.”  Bread was comfort food.  Mairon put the plate near Kosomot and slid the butter over, too, for good measure.

 

A level above, the Swarm congregated in Melkor’s kitchen and gawped at something unfathomable.

After the Master shut the door behind him, Rat had pressed the stopper into the sink drain and half filled the basin with hot water.  First, she’d stripped off her bloody, ragged frock then her leggings.  She’d thrown them in the water with a squirt of dish soap.  Then she’d…climbed in.

Now she half lay, diagonal, in the frothy stew.  Twelve clawed toes peeped out one side and her sleek, black head lay on the other, tucked against a clean dishcloth.

Snick, sitting on the counter beside Vole and the half-empty coffeepot, stared with an open mouth.

The rest of the Swarm frowned from atop the cabinets, or the kitchen table, or floated in the air to get a better view.

A current of perplexed curiosity hovered in the air.

Vole, slapping jam and Nutella between frozen slices of store-bought bread, paid no mind at all.  He’d seen this before.

“ Snick?”

“ Cheep?”

“ Chitter?”

“ Click?”

“ Snap?”

The Swarm wanted an explanation.

“ Bath.” Vole hissed, not looking up.

Rat crooned then sank deeper into the hot water.  Her knees peeked out from the suds as her chin and mouth disappeared.

Vole thought to his siblings that Rat had adopted this odd affectation from the Lord Lieutenant, this stewing in hot water thing.  He, himself, was no fan, but it made her happy.

Rat’s lazy hand came out of the water and pointed toward the parlor.

The Swarm did not want to go watch Telly.  This was more interesting.

Vole asked Snick to hand him a knife from Melkor’s block.  When she gave him a small meat cleaver, Vole shrugged and whacked the sandwiches in half.  Snick distributed them and the Swarm, crunching away at frozen bread, watched as Rat’s head sank completely under the water.

“ Ahhh,” they crooned when she sat up and scrubbed herself with the dishcloth.  “ Oooh,” when she squeezed dish soap into her dripping hair.  The resulting suds earned an amused snicker.  They observed in awed silence as she drained the frothy water and rinsed first slick hair and pale skin, then her clothes, with the sink sprayer.

Vole got her two clean tea towels from the messy pile in the drawer.  Crunching his own frozen half sandwich, he padded away to Melkor’s spare bedroom.  He returned with a fresh black frock and leggings.  These were not ragged or threadbare, but otherwise exactly like those bunched in the sink.

Rat sat on the counter, one towel under her butt and the other over her head—with Snick sniffing at her ear—when Langon, juggling bags of fast food, came through the kitchen door.

“ Bath night?” the Herald asked.

The Swarm hissed at him.  Vole nodded.  Rat smiled.

Langon, confronted with rows of pearly, needle-like teeth, chuckled, and distributed chips and burgers.  The Swarm complained that these weren’t nuggets.

“ There was a special.  Two for one.  Same with these,” he held up a cardboard sleeve, “ apple pies, still warm.”  Sliding the contents of two bags out onto the linoleum floor, “Stop pissing and moaning.  Eat before they get cold.”  He crumpled the bags and stuffed them in the trash, “ Share, you grumpy little bastards.”

He slapped two Styrofoam boxes on the counter beside Snick.  “ Where’s the Master?  I got him a steak, and roast turkey for the Captain.”

Vole, face down in a sleeve of chips, pointed at the floor.

Rat cheeped.

“ R-eally?” Langon asked a delighted, gossipy voice, “ How’d that happen?”  He swiped two packets of ketchup off an Umaia who looked like a scorpion/gerbil hybrid and handed them to Vole.

A swirl of thin, powdery blue smoke filled the kitchen doorway.  Thuringwethil took shape.  Stretching her wings until hooked thumb claws scraped the ceiling, she yawned.  Shifting leathery wings into a pair of arms, she scratched a furry belly with long, curved talons.

“ Evening, Brother.  Little shits.”

“ Good evening, Sister,” Langon gave her a shallow bow, “ Guess where the Master is.”

“ Supping with my master,” through another yawn.  “ I hear His Voice.  And smell hemp.  Himself and the old lady are chatting like old comrades.”

Langon, deflating because she’d stolen his thunder, stole three chips off a Lesser Sibling.

“ Where’s the Captain?” ‘Wethil wondered.

Snick offered Langon a bite of her hamburger.  Another Umaiar clicked and pointed at the floor.

“ So everyone who’s anyone is down there,” ‘Wethil grumbled as she assumed her humanoid fana.

“ I had dinner,” Langon told Snick, “ with a date,” giving ‘Wethil a teasing look.

“ Don’t you stuff another dead streetwalker in my pantry!”  The lamia snapped, “ I had to pay a professional cleaner to get out that stink.  He almost called the police on me!  I was forced to englamour him, and now he won’t stop asking me out.”

“ Go out with him.” Langon shrugged.

“ What am I supposed to do at dinner with a mortal?” ‘Wethil scowled.

“ Tell him you’re on a diet then snack on him in the car.”

‘Wethil’s scowl changed into a thoughtful look.  “ Not bad,”

“ How old is this coffee?” Langon pulled the pot from the percolator and sniffed the liquid.

Vole clicked.  Snick snicked.  Rat jumped down from the counter and, after drying her armpits and bottom, slipped into her clean clothes.

“ Good enough.” Langon poured himself a cup and turned off the unit.

Thuringwethil cast a smug glance over the Swarm.  “ I know something you lot don’t know.  And you want to know.”

They gave her a collective, jaundiced glare.

Langon rested his hip against the counter and mused, “ The Master’s out.  I could watch porn,” under his breath.

The Swarm growled at him.

“ It’s research!” the Herald protested.

“ You do a vast amount of ‘research’,” ‘Wethil shot him a teasing glance then taunted the Swarm, “You little shits really, really want to know what I know.  It’s about…the dog!”

Rat, lacing her frock, rolled her eyes.

One of the Swarm, who’d pulled apart its burger to lick melted cheese off the meat patty, looked up.  It rattled and clicked.

The Swarm cheered.

Rat jerked around.

‘Wethil scowled again.  “ How did you find out that the dog is gone?”

“ The Captain can’t be happy about that.” Langon, however, didn’t evince much sympathy, “ He was besotted with the damn thing.”

Rat approached the other Umaia, and, with a skree, commanded a report.

It told her that it’d been stationed at the window, keeping watch for You-Know-Who, and witnessed the dog’s departure.  It also reported that the Captain and the Lieutenant had stood side by side in the rain, getting soaked, for a long time afterward.

“ Who’s You-Know-Who?” ‘Wethil demanded.

The Swarm ignored her.

“ Mairon must be displeased.  A dog is akin to a werewolf.  He was a pissy bitch after losing both Draugluin and Carcharoth.” Langon murmured.

“ Ey, you, little monster, who’s You-Know-Who?”  ‘Wethil jabbed Snick.

Snick wailed, “ Weaza!”

Vole and Rat, who’d managed to distract their sister, glared at the vampiress.

Rat chittered.  Vole hissed.

“ Who’re you calling a bitch?!” Thuringwethil demanded, “ I outrank you little bastards!  I’ll skin you and hang your hides on my wall!”

The Swarm snarled at ‘Wethil.

Snick’s eyes…dripped…water.  She pulled the scrap of drying, clotted fur from the over-plane around them. 

Vole had put it into a zip-lock baggie for her.  Rat had hidden it in the spectral ether.  Not only to safe-keep it but also remove it from Snick’s sight.  Hugging the bag, Snick dropped onto the floor and ran to Vole, nearly bowling him over, to bury her face in his neck. 

Rat and ‘Wethil, hissing like a pair of boiling kettles, circled each other around Melkor’s kitchen floor.

“ What’s it doing?” Langon demanded, “ Is it…crying?”

Rat and ‘Wethil snarled in each other’s faces.

“ Mortals cry.  Umaiar don’t.” Langon protested, “ We…don't…cry.”

Rat stopped growling at ‘Wethil.  She chirruped and thrummed at Langon.

“ Mairon cried?  When did Mairon cry?” Langon was skeptical, “ Mairon barely changes expression unless he’s play-acting his ass off,”

Thuringwethil exploded in outrage, “ That’s not true!  Foul slander!”  She railed, “My master never did!”

Rat cheeped and warbled.

Every spirit fell silent.  The Swarm moaned.  And stopped eating their apple pies.

‘Wethil gasped and covered her mouth with both hands.

Langon stared into his coffee.

Rat did not tell them that Mairon had not only cried when the Valar came for Melkor, but he had also, for a time, lost his mind; alternating between ghastly, soul-wrenching screams, frenzied laughter, and horrific, heart-rending sobs.

One of Rat’s eyes twitched.  Unbeknownst to her, it clouded over with a thick, white film then quickly returned to its normal deep black.  The whole thing happened so fast that only Langon and Vole noticed.

The Herald sank to one knee and reached out to grab Rat’s arm.  His fingers flinched back, “ You’ve taken a beating this day.”  He felt it, the residual black energy, clinging to both flesh and psyche.

Rat gave him a flat, impassive stare.  They Looked to Melkor.  Their Vala was neither kind nor gentle.

Langon scooped a cooling burger off the floor, unwrapped it, and pressed it into Rat’s hands.  “ Keep up your strength.  We aren't through yet.”

Thuringwethil huffed and pounced over to grab Langon’s shoulder, “ What are you up to the rest of the night?  Let’s do something.”  She glared at Rat.

Langon ignored her for another moment.  He collected an apple pie and pressed that on Rat, too.  “ These taste best when they’re warm,” he advised.

‘Wethil pulled on him, “ Brother,”

Langon shook off the lamia and stood.  “ Sister-mine, don’t be a complete bitch.”  He gave ‘Wethil a rakish grin and pulled her over to Melkor’s small kitchen table.

Rat sniffed the fried pie and nibbled at a corner of the pastry.  Vole, Snick clinging to him, lumbered to Rat.  He, too, sniffed and nibbled at the pie.  Then he broke off a piece and shoved it in Snick’s mouth.  She was still crying.

“ Have a seat, sister-mine,” Langon pulled out a chair for ‘Wethil.  He seated himself on the opposite side of the table and, unbuttoning one cuff, offered her his bare wrist.  “Just a sip.”

Thuringwethil forgot all about Rat.  She grabbed Langon’s arm and ran her tongue over the big blue vein pulsing under his skin.

“ One fang, ‘Wethil, just one fang.  I don’t want to bleed all night.”

“ Hmm,” she crooned, “ I’ll be careful.”

The Swarm clustered around Rat, Vole, and Snick.  A few reached out to pinch or poke at Snick, indicating she should stop sniveling.

Vole bared his teeth, but they ignored him.  When Rat hissed at them, however, they stopped.  And pouted.

At the table, Thuringwethil tested the tip of first one fang then the other against Langon’s flesh.  When she found a comfortable position, she pierced into his vein with utmost delicacy.  Vibrating with pleasure, she laced her fingers through the backs of his and traced little circles in his open palm.

Langon leaned on the table and murmured, “ Sweetly done, little sister, sweetly done.  I barely felt a pinch.  Little sips now or you’ll get lightheaded.  That’s not mortal blood.  When you’re through, we’ll watch a video until the Master returns.”

‘Wethil, eyes rolled back in her head, hummed in ecstasy.

“ Go pick a movie,” Langon whispered to the Swarm over the lamia's head.

Gathering the hamburgers and apple pies left on the floor, they trotted into the parlor.

Rat and Vole, with Snick still clinging to Vole, put the Styrofoam Take-Away containers into the fridge.

 

Mairon gathered the empty rice pudding casserole off the table.  Kosomot, who had eaten little dinner, still picked at his dessert and looked as if he might actually finish it.

Bell had devoured his own, with a cup of Faroula’s instant decaf coffee.

Mairon, who hadn’t had nearly as much pudding as he would if he and his mother were alone, couldn’t decide if he was happy that his guests seemed to love Umi’s dessert or unhappy at his own small portion.

Gathering up more dirty plates, he slid out into the kitchen while Bell and Faroula discussed how to flip houses—the best ways to buy low, fix economically, and sell for a wide margin profit.

“ It really helps if you can do most of the work yourself.” Bell rumbled, relaxed with wine and weed, in one of the very comfortable old chairs.  “Sweat-equity.  You sweat but the equity goes in your pocket rather than the contractors.”

“ And you do everything yourself?”

“ Not everything.  Most of it.”

Mairon rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. After scrubbing the casserole dish, he fit it in, too.  Yawning, he looked at the clock and realized it was almost eight.  It wasn’t just the overabundance of weed he’d smoked that had him yawning.  Nearly time for bed.

As he moved through the parlor, headed for the laundry room, he realized Kosomot had fallen silent.  No longer bothered to pretend interest.

Mairon slipped the clean, single-bed sized sheets into a plastic bag so Kosomot could keep them dry on his way back to the carriage house.  Returning to the kitchen, he put them on the counter closest to the door and poured himself a last, half mug of chamomile tea.

“ Captain, we’ve lingered late,” Bell announced as Mairon returned to the table.

Kosomot had, Mairon noted, cleaned out his pudding bowl.  “ Yes, Sir.”  As he rose, Kosomot told Faroula, “ I enjoyed this very much.”

“ It’s my favorite pudding,” Mairon said.

“ Rhonee’s favorite,” Faroula said at the same time.  “ I make another batch before I go home, yes?  We have lamb next time.”

Mairon bit back a groan.  Fantastic.  Great.  After their guests left, he really had to hash this out with her.

“ It’s been ages since I’ve had lamb,” Bell, damn him, sounded pleasantly mellow and so…fucking…sexy.

“ I never have,” Kosomot sounded a little less sad, but he could be numb.  Mairon looked into that sharp, planed face.  Yes, probably numb by now.

“ I make a mean rack of lamb,”

“ Rhonee makes delicious lamb chops,”

“ Tuesday evening,” Faroula added.  Mairon shot her a quick, flat, unhappy look.  She ignored him.  “Five or six.  We let you both know.”

Bell bowed over Faroula’s hand, radiating easy charm, and pressed Mairon’s just a little too intimately before he took his leave.

Kosomot, a bit blank and very quiet, accepted the sheets as a gift.  Mairon stepped out onto the landing to bid him goodnight.

“ Try to get a decent night’s sleep,” Mairon ignored the cold spring rain, “ It’ll take a while, but eventually you’ll learn to live with it.”  Squeezing the redhead’s shoulder, “ And we’ll find a way to keep you busy.  Get your mind off it.”  He pressed the largest of the day’s roaches into Kosomot’s hand.  “ See if you can’t get some of that into you.  You’ll sleep no matter how shitty you feel.”

“ Thank you, Mairon.  You have been stalwart throughout.  I am in your debt.”

Mairon wished he could find Kosomot’s old-fashioned language amusing now.  It merely made the night seem more poignant.

“ No.  Not at all.  I’ve lost a dog, too.  I know how you feel.  We’ll do dinner, just you and I, without your commanding officer.  Soon.”

Kosomot blinked at him in surprise.  “ You are perceptive.”

Mairon scoffed, “ Many would disagree,” because most of the time Mairon simply did not give a shit about other people or their feelings.  “Night, Kos.”  He watched Kosomot go down the stairs and cross to the carriage house before stepping into his warm, dry kitchen to find Faroula rinsing the crockpot insert.

“ Umi, we need to talk,” as he closed the door.

And did not see three little, black shadows dart off the upstairs landing.

They twirled and swirled through the raindrops.  One led the way.  A second followed close behind but the third whirled around in widening circles.

Rat permeated Kosomot’s flat window a moment before Vole.  They hovered for long minutes.  Finally, Rat’s molecules passed through the window again, back out into the darkness, to gather Snick—who had never before been outside the house.  Awonder at everything she saw, Snick whipped around taking in the rain, the garden, the driveway, everything.

Rat emitted an electrical pulse, pulling Snick’s molecules tight to her own, and slipped back into the Captain’s domain.

As they assembled flesh, they found Vole, already corporeal, standing in the Captain’s bedchamber.

Kosomot sat on his bunk, folded sheets abandoned beside him, with both hands over his face.  Rat clicked as she approached.  Snick, perceiving the Balrog’s spirit more than his current body, pressed her back to the wall.  Terrified.

Lungorthin insisted on being a bastard to the Lesser Umaiar and the Little Ones, unable to distinguish one Balrog from another, feared all twelve on sight.

Kosomot lowered his hands.  Looked at them with confusion.

Rat smelled salt and, stretching up on tiptoes, realized the Captain’s face was not wet with rain.  Rain wasn’t salty.

Mairon, Rat realized, was not the only Superior Umaia who cried.  She chirruped.

“ I am fine.  What is your purpose, little seamstress?” Kosomot wiped his cheeks.

Rat cheeped a question.

“ Yes, the dog is gone.  As the Master commanded.”

Vole patted Kosomot’s knee.  He turned and waved Snick over.

She refused with a wild shake of her head.  Snick crouched by the wall, curling into a little ball, and mewled.

“ Who is this?” Kosomot asked and Snick shrilled with horror.  On all fours, she scrambled for the bedroom door and dark kitchenette beyond.  “ Nay, nay, nay, little one, be calm,” Kosomot held out a huge hand, “ The dog is gone.  You need not fear.”

But Snick kept going.  She rounded the door casing and hid.

Vole, heaving a deep sigh, went after her.

Rat pulled herself onto Kosomot’s unmade mattress.  Swinging her feet, she chittered.

“ Tevildo?  The Master did not summon him and he is not esteemed enough to forebear Melkor’s Displeasure,” Kosomot rumbled, “ when the Master discovers him,”

Rat nodded with satisfaction.  She told the Captain how Vole had found what remained of Weasel in the basement.

“ Weaza!” came Snick’s breathless sob from the dark front room.

“ How dare he!” Kosomot railed, “ How dare he flout the Lieutenant’s Rules!”

Rat leaned toward the Balrog, one hand curled in a claw.  She rasped and snarled and drew her little black talons through the air.

“ Aye, aye, no love lost between our Mairon and Tevildo.  As if That Cat could master a foundry and direct legions!”

Kosomot was a field general.  He understood that Mairon had not merely armed and provisioned but also directed Melkor’s forces.  The Master, when sane, was an unequaled tactician.  Melkor’s dreadful brilliance triumphed in battles but His armies won wars because of Mairon’s foresight, his ability to play the long game, and improvise at need.

One, without the other, fought with only half the necessary skill.  Together, they were nigh unconquerable.  Or could have been before Melkor became Silmaril Crazed.

“ Tevildo, that spiny-pricked little asshole,” Kosomot rumbled, “ couldn’t even contain a mortal man in his own demesne.  Fell for that half-bred wench’s ploy.  ‘Tis Tevildo’s fault, really, that the Master lost his gem.”

Rat, who knew this to be a highly subjective point of view, loved it nonetheless and adored Kosomot all-the-more for giving voice to it.  She tucked herself against the Captain’s side and sang in joyous concordance.

Snick, whom Vole had dragged back into the doorway, saw this with wonder.  She stopped struggling.  Chirped in amazement when Kosomot lifted Rat onto his lap.

Vole strove to remember that he had made peace with the Captain via a bag of marshmallows.  He swallowed the jealous growl that rose in his little chest.  Instead, he gave Snick a somewhat sickly smile and drew her into the Captain’s chamber.

Kosomot and Rat abused Tevildo, to their hearts’ content, for long minutes.  When the Captain started abusing both Lungorthin and Tevildo, from one breath to the next, Snick crept closer of her own will.  A little cheep interjected a very bad word.

“ Aye!” Kosomot exclaimed, “ May the Master crush both their skulls and sup upon their hearts!  Now, little ones, I have had a long and trying day.  My heart is sore and I would rest.  What service would you have of me?”

Rat slid off Kosomot’s lap, grabbed Snick, and pulled her forward.  She warbled.

“ I have jam.  This one wants jam?  Come, little sister…what are you called?”

Snick snicked.

“ Come, little sister Snick, the Lieutenant brought me a fine jam.  Raspberry, I think it is.  'Tis very red.”  He rose and led her into the other room.  The Lesser Umaia followed at a safe distance, but she went without a qualm.

Rat grinned at Vole.  He nodded.  They looked at the Captain’s unmade bed.  Vole, knowing Rat would find this unacceptable, went for the pillow while Rat unfolded the sheets.

By the time Kosomot and Snick returned, the Vermin had a case on the pillow and the fitted sheet on the mattress.

It was a little bed.  Much easier to make than Melkor’s Super King.

Snick chewed half a piece of bread liberally smeared with butter and jam.  Kosomot licked at his fingers.  “You should try Nutella,” he advised.

A startled glance at the industrious Vermin, “ Nay, you are not my servants, I will do this…eventually.”

Rat pursed her lips at him.  Vole just kept working.  Soon they had the bed dressed with top sheet, blanket, and counterpane.  All folded down in invitation.

Rat took a surreptitious glance around and decided she needed to come out here more often.  Dust on the windowsills and the floor in need of a sweep… Her face turned toward the kitchen, now dimly lit.  She twitched.

Vole grabbed her hand.  Holding her in place, he cheeped at the Captain.

“ Is she so a’feared?  Are you a’fright, Snick?” Kosomot sank to a knee, “Umaia should not fear one another.  We must all pull together to please the Master and accomplish His Will.  This, I learned from our brother Mairon.”

Snick showed him her zip-lock baggie, " Weaza."  She began crying again. 

Kosomot’s eyes filled, too.  He sat down on his bed and picked up Snick.  Rat collected the half-eaten piece of bread and jam.  Breaking it into equal portions, she gave one to Vole.

Chewing, they watched Kosomot shift onto his pillow, swing up both long legs, and pull their grieving sister against a broad chest.

The Vermin nodded at one another and departed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One mouse, flattened into a fluffy little pancake, waves at you. I just finished writing and editing this chapter today. (That means it's not as well edited as I'd like and will tinker at it in the near future.)
> 
> Now I go back to my plot-points and outline to get the next chapters set up, but before I do, I must get out some honorable mentions:
> 
> To Morgause1 - please take the reference to Spy-Master Oresh as the humble tribute I mean it to be, despite the fact that he's taking some Mairon based abuse. You are not only an inspiration to me but a wonderfully generous fellow writer that I try to slip some appreciation for you in where ever I can. <3 <3 <3 my dear and now that these chapters are put to bed, I'll be by to give what's owed and answered my overdue messages!
> 
> AMENDMENT - On the subject of the Maiarin Nature - a while back Morgause and I were chatting on Tumblr and Morgause came up with the idea that Ilmare couldn't bear to be away from Varda - would even fly home early from a Hawaiin vacation because she couldn't bear to be separated from her Valier. And that made such perfect, perfect sense to me - I applied it to ALL Maiar. So the idea that Maiar won't take their yearly holidays, happily work overtime, and practically live in their 'employers' houses - that's ALL Morgause's brilliant mind! Came right out of her wonderful and fertile imagination! It was merely my honor to slip it into Chapter 21 to better illustrate that Mairon isn't the only one who comes running when his Valar whistles - they all do! It's their Nature - the depth of the love they devote to their Valar. Inbred right down to their atoms!
> 
> Thank you for the wonderful, wonderful ideas! I offer them back to you in loving tribute!
> 
> To Senhorita Marina - I owe you many thanks for the hammer innuendo! Thank you for the inspiration and I hope you like how I wove it in! I'm still giggling like a mad-mouse and fanning my burning face - it fits so very, very perfectly!
> 
> To Chokingonwhys - I cannot adequately express my admiration for "Til I Hear It From You" and have had a tab open to its comment section for so long I can't remember when I opened the darn thing. To do what you did so perfectly, I'm in awe! Which you wouldn't know because I don't Kudo until after I comment. I'm just going to go gabble like an idiot and hit the button, so if it makes little sense...you've been warned.
> 
> To the Most Poetic Fox - it was a while ago, but I haven't forgotten your last offering.
> 
> To Greenairsheep (Gothmog FINALLY gets his sheets!), Aura, Trulally, Jirging, BlueStar, Esqui, Hello From Valinor, and everyone else - forgive me for being a socially awkward, anxiety-ridden mouse who should be on your Dash and Discord more than I am?
> 
>  
> 
> To all of you, a mouse sends all her love and the strongest wishes for peace and prosperity in this New Year <3 <3 <3

**Author's Note:**

> How blessed I am that my Fandom has not only a bunch of really, really great writers but also some truly wonderful people! The Angbang Fandom is but a small portion of the Tolkien Fandom but I consider myself honored to stand among such talented people! And share with them the Dark Glory that is our ship. No two Melkors, and no two Mairons are exactly the same. Each author's unique Vision is stunningly creative, and infinitely fascinating.
> 
> It is my sincere belief that the more we feed each other's creativity and support one another's strenuous toil the better our Fandom is for everyone involved!
> 
> I would like to send my particular love and affection to Morgause1, meaninglessprose, bodhvildr, radioactive-earthshine, sigurfox, mortomary, asgardian-angels, and aurawolfgirl2000. There are many others, too, but I don't have enough space here to name you all - to my deep regret. I'm going to try to add more on as I post more chapters...
> 
> Please consider dropping a comment - it may help me keep this monster progressing. I don't have a great history with multi-chapter pieces and could use all the encouragement a mouse can get.
> 
> Thank you so much for your time! <3!! from a <3~~ ( musinshadw on Tumblr is Lairenuriel on AO3)


End file.
